Harriet shook her head. "It isn't that," she said.
"Then what is it, my dear? This suspense is killing me."
"Your cuffs, Horatio."
Her voice had in it a note of anguish. For the moment all the pitiful makeshifts of the last few months, ever since Horatio resigned from his last pulpit, and their present dependence on the bounty of a distant relative, seemed to find concentrated expression on Horatio's frayed cuffs. Harriet was on the verge of tears.
"Come to your room," she said. "I will get my scissors."
They paused at the first landing of the long oak staircase, Harriet for breath, Horatio for Harriet.
"I wish you thought more of your appearance, Horatio," she panted. "Cousin Hiram, though he is only an American, is so particular about his shirts."
"If I had Cousin Hiram's money I might——"
"No, you wouldn't, Horatio. You'd spend it all on charities and Angora cats and—mechanical toys," she added indignantly.
"And real lace dresses for my old Dutch," laughed Horatio, putting his arm around her, "and satin slippers like the Countess Kate's."