Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature.
Then she took a fresh sheet.
“I’ll make a copy,” she said.
“Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . .
When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass.
“Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.”
Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table.
The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer.
There was once a dear called Titus. He was most awfully handsome and generous, and when he married he spoiled his wife to death. She was as greedy and selfish as he was sweet, and though he gave her everything he’d got, that wasn’t enough. So then, though he was all tired, he took off his shabby coat and began to work. He worked and worked and always swore he liked it, but he loathed it really. And they both knew why he was doing it, but he pretended it amused him, and she pretended to believe him for very shame. And then one day she really did want him to stop. And when he saw that she meant it, he gave her all the gold he had made. “If that’s enough,” he said gently, “why, then I’ll stop. But if it isn’t, dear, I must try to go on.” And when he said that, all of a sudden HER DESIRE FOR RICHES DIED. . . . And she didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry because at last she saw that, money or no, nothing could ever alter the fact that she was the richest woman in all the world—because she was
TITUS’ WIFE.