“And I give them love,” said I. “The trouble is I give so freely that you don’t value it.”
“Oh, you are a good husband,” said she carelessly. “But I want you to take an interest.”
“In your social climbing?”
“How insulting you are!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “I am trying to claim the position we are entitled to, and you speak of me as if I were one of those vulgar pushers.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I humbly. “I was merely joking.”
“I’ve often told you that your idea of humor was revolting.”
I felt distressed for her in her chagrin and despair. I was ready to bear almost anything she might see fit to inflict. “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Do you need more money?”
“I need help—real help,” said she.
“Money’s god over the realm of fashion, the same as it is over that of—of religion—of politics—or anything you please. And luckily I’ve got that little god in my employ, my dear.”
“If you are so powerful,” said she, “put me into fashionable society—make these people receive me and come to my house.”