"That's very kind of you, and I feel it, Stacy, dear; but when you speak of lifting me up with your money, who was it that owned the first five hundred dollars you, or me, Mr. Stacy?"
"Harriet!"
"It's no use thundering out my baptismal name against me, Mr. Stacy, for that's a thing I won't bear at no price! Truth is truth, Mr. Hepworth, and rich as that man is, rolling over and over in gold, like a porpose in salt water, it was my five hundred dollars that did it! Let him say if I didn't own that much?"
"But didn't I marry you, and then didn't you own me? Would you set down good looks, financial ability, and moral character A number one, at five hundred dollars, and you—"
What was coming next Hepworth was destined never to learn, for Mrs. Stacy, overcome by a fit of conjugal remorse, leaned forward and placed one substantial hand in the flame-colored glove of her husband.
"Matthew, forgive me! I didn't mean it. That mention of the primmer donner and her protager upset me; but I am your wife yet, Stacy, dear—your true and lawful wife—just as ready to travel with you into every tropical climate of Europe as I ever was."
Stacy would not clasp his flame-colored fingers around that hand, but let it drop with ignominious looseness, while he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and buried his face in it.
"Harriet! Harriet! you have hurt my feelings, mortified my—my manhood before an old friend!"
It was in the night, the carriage was close, the lamps dim, and Hepworth only knew that there a heap of drapery launched itself into the front seat, that a voice came from the midst, saying:
"Oh, Matthew! Matthew!"