"Fifty."
"Well, fifty it is, then. Between us, that was all I hesitated about; twenty-five pounds was such a pitiful sum for you to ask of me. You didn't understand this noble feeling, and almost threatened me; but not quite, and I'm glad of it, for Matthew Stacy is the last man on earth to give up to a threat. I hope you will believe that, Miss Margaret."
"Fifty pounds!" said Margaret, lifting a tuft of grass by the roots with the point of her parasol.
"Did I dispute its being fifty? Certainly not. Now just say how you will take it—in gold or Bank of England notes?"
"Notes will do."
"I'm glad you said that, because I happen to have the notes about me," answered the alderman, drawing out a plethoric note-case, and counting the money with terrible reluctance. "Here we are; just the sum. Now tell me, were you really in earnest about its being fifty?"
"Just fifty," answered Margaret, counting the money on her lap; "just fifty."
Matthew heaved a grievous sigh, and stood up.
"Now I suppose that little affair is settled forever?" he said, working both hands about the head of his cane, while he eyed the girl askance.
"I said fifty pounds, and fifty pounds it is," answered Margaret. "Now let us be going."