Stacy was troubled. To deny his wealth was a terrible sacrifice of vanity—to admit it might be exposing himself to depredation.
"Well, yes," he said at last, "I am rich. No one in New York would doubt that; but over here one has such trouble in getting funds, you understand. It was only this morning Mrs. Stacy wanted money for a little shopping, as she called it; but I couldn't give it to her—upon my soul I couldn't."
"Then, it would be of no use to ask you for a loan of twenty-five pounds, as I thought of doing."
"A loan of twenty-five pounds, my dear Maggie! Five hundred pounds would not be too much, if I were only in New York; but here in London, where Alderman Stacy is not known, I could not raise even the miserable sum you want—I could not, indeed."
Maggie's eyes began to flash, for she understood the meanness of this man, and despised it; but she thought of that anxious group in Olympia's parlor, and resolved to have the money.
"Still, considering everything, I think you will try to oblige me."
"Don't ask me. It wounds my manhood to refuse; but let us talk of something else—those dear old times—"
"No," said Margaret, unlocking one of her bracelets, and closing it with a vicious snap. "If you cannot let me have it, I will go to your wife."
"My wife? You go to my wife! Why, she hates you like pison!"
"And I am not very fond of her; but I want this money, and she will have to give it me."