Madame Beattie threw back her head on its stout muscular neck and laughed, a husky laugh much like an old man's wheeze.
"No! no!" said she, approaching him and extending an ungloved hand, "not so bad as that. How are you? Tell its auntie."
Jeffrey laughed. He took the hand for a brief grasp, and returned to the group of chairs, where he found a comfortable rocker for her.
"How in the deuce," said he, "did you get here so quick?"
Madame Beattie rejected the rocker and took a straight chair that kept her affluence of curves in better poise.
"Quick after what?" she inquired, with a perfect good-nature.
Jeffrey had seated himself on the rail, his hands, too, resting on it, and he regarded her with a queer terrified amusement, as if, in research, he had dug up a strange object he had no use for and might find it difficult to place. Not to name: he could name her very accurately.
"So quick after I got here," he replied, with candour. "I tell you plainly, Madame Beattie, there isn't a cent to be got out of me. I'm done, broke, down and out."
Madame Beattie regarded him with an unimpaired good-humour.
"Bless you, Jeff," said she, "I know that. What are you going to do, now you're out?"