"Ten, twenty, fifty, ten, ten, ten, fif— Why, Dempster, what do you mean? How far will a hundred and fifty dollars go? I want to spend more than that on Valenciennes lace for Cecilia's dress. The child must have something to wear."
She spoke in a grieved, half-angry way, that touched Dempster to the heart. He took out his pocket-book, but not another sign of money was in it. Then he felt in three or four pockets with the air of a man who was tormented with doubts of finding anything. At last he stopped looking.
"I haven't another red cent about me, dear. Indeed I haven't."
"Dear me, what am I to do? There is a guipure sacque at Stewart's that I must have."
"Couldn't you get along without it?" says Dempster, with such pathetic earnestness that I really felt sorry for him.
"Get along without it! How can you ask?"
"That Brussels lace thing," faltered Dempster.
"What, that? I have had it six months at least; besides, I saw another just like it at the hotel, and that is enough to disgust one with anything. If people will pattern after me, I can't help it. Then again one gets so tired of the same thing."
"But I have no more money."
"Can't you draw a check?"