“My dear—my love!” cried the wife.
“My love! Well, well, you mean the same thing; but the words should not be ‘my love’—but ‘my money.’”
“You are not well, Solomon. You have been vexed by this disappointment; you have taken it too much to heart,” stammered Mrs. Jericho.
“To heart! ha! ha! Very well—be it so. Heart and pocket, ma’am; all’s one.”
“My dear, let me send for Doctor Stubbs.” The wife shrinkingly approached the Man of Money, and—timidly as a wood-nymph might put her hand upon a wolf—was about to encircle with her arm the neck of Jericho.
“Away with you! I’ll have none of it. Woman’s arms! The serpents that wind about a man’s neck, killing his best resolutions. Away with you, and do as I command. Bring me all your treasures—all. And your minxes! See that they obey me too. And instantly.”
“Yes, my love; to be sure,” said Mrs. Jericho; for she was all but convinced that Solomon’s reason was gone, or going. It was best and wisest for the time to be calm with him—to humour him. “And why, my love, do you wish for these things? Of course, you shall have them. But why?”
“To turn them into money, madam,” cried Jericho, rubbing his hands. “We have had enough of the tom-foolery of wealth—I now begin to hunger for the substance. I’ll do without fashion. I’ll have power, madam; power.”
“Yes, Solomon; certainly. But tell me, dearest, is not fashion power?” asked the wife, essaying a smile.
“The power of a fool. Am I a fool?” The wife raised her hands, forbidding the thought. “What’s all this show—all this outside trumpery? Do I enjoy it? Am I the master of it?”—