“Yes, love; of course,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“I say no—no. The fools, the wretches who come about us—’tis theirs as much as mine. To see it is to have it. Now why should I rob myself to feed the eyes of asses? No: I’ll have all my money all to myself. I’ll keep the power in my own hands—in my own hands. I’ll raise an army, an army, madam;” and Jericho chuckled, and his wife was more convinced of his increasing insanity. “Now, woman, do you know what an army is?”
“Of course, my dear; I should hope so,” and the wife still tried to coax the madman.
“I mean, the rich man’s army; the miser’s army, if you will. Now I propose to raise—let me see—let me see—a couple of million of fighting men.”
“Mad! Past hope—mad!” thought the wife in despair.
“Do you hear me, woman?” roared the Man of Money, and he shook like a green flag in the wind.
“Yes, love; every word—every syllable. Of course;” and again the wife trembled.
“Two millions of fighting men. And how will I raise them? Why, there’s your jewels; the jewels—for I’ll have every stone of ’em—of those kittens, your daughters.”—
(“If I could only manage to send for Doctor Stubbs,” thought Mrs. Jericho.)
“Then there’s this house and all its lumbering trumpery. And—and—that cursed hermitage you made me buy for the time I was to be Prime Minister of England.”—