“I’m not a bit cross. Only I would like you to understand that my illness isn’t a joke. You don’t suppose I should let you pay my bills and do all this for me unless it were really something serious.”
Sylvia put her hand on his mouth. “I forgive you,” she murmured, “because you really are ill. Oh, Arthur, do you remember Hube? What fun everything is!”
Sylvia left him and went down-stairs to arrange matters with Mrs. Lebus.
“It was a relation, after all,” she told her. “The Maddens have been related to us for hundreds of years.”
“My! My! Now ain’t that real queer? Oh, Scipio!”
Mr. Lebus came into view cleaning his nails with the same pen, and was duly impressed with the coincidence.
“Darned if I don’t tell Pastor Gollick after next Sunday meeting. He’s got a kind of hankering after the ways of Providence. Gee! Why, it’s a sermonizing cinch.”
There was general satisfaction in the Auburn Hotel over the payment of Arthur’s bill.
“Not that I wouldn’t have trusted him for another month and more,” Mrs. Lebus affirmed. “But it’s a satisfaction to be able to turn round and say to the neighbors, ‘What did I tell you?’ Folks in Sulphurville was quite sure I’d never be paid back a cent. This’ll learn them!”
Mr. Lebus, in whose throat the doubts of the neighbors had gathered to offend his faith, cleared them out forever in one sonorous rauque.