Mrs. Collinson began to weep a little. “The old, old story!” she said. “Six long, long years it’s been going on now! I ask you how much you’ve got, and you say, ‘Nine dollars,’ or ‘Seven dollars,’ or ‘Four dollars’; and once it was sixty-five cents! Sixty-five cents; that’s what we have to live on! Sixty-five cents!”
“Oh, hush!” he said wearily.
“Hadn’t you better hush a little yourself?” she retorted. “You come home with twelve dollars in your pocket and tell your wife to hush! That’s nice! Why can’t you do what decent men do?”
“What’s that?”
“Why, give their wives something to live for. What do you give me, I’d like to know! Look at the clothes I wear, please!”
“Well, it’s your own fault,” he muttered.
“What did you say? Did you say it’s my fault I wear clothes any woman I know wouldn’t be seen in?”
“Yes, I did. If you hadn’t made me get you that platinum ring——”
“What!” she cried, and flourished her hand at him across the table. “Look at it! It’s platinum, yes; but look at the stone in it, about the size of a pin-head, so’t I’m ashamed to wear it when any of my friends see me! A hundred and sixteen dollars is what this magnificent ring cost you, and how long did I have to beg before I got even that little out of you? And it’s the best thing I own and the only thing I ever did get out of you!”
“Oh, Lordy!” he moaned.