“How much?” asked her husband, with a blithe carelessness.
“I think a hundred pounds—because I want the girls on such an occasion to make a blow—I do almost think, yes I am nearly sure that a hundred pounds, for we must have a few trinkets, will do pretty well.”
“A hundred pounds, after all, isn’t much,” said Jericho, airily.
“Not with a great, a vital object in view,” responded his wife.
“And as the world goes,” said Jericho, “people who would be somebody must make an appearance.”
“It is the compulsion of our artificial state of life: I wish it were otherwise. But as it is so, my dear,—you will let me have the money?”
At this question a strangely pleasurable thrill passed through the breast of Jericho; his heart glowed and expanded as it had never done before; and he felt his hand drawn—as though some fairy pulled at either finger end—to his bosom. His bare hand pressed his heart, that, at the pressure, gave a sudden and delicious flutter.
“You will let me have the money?” repeated Mrs. Jericho.
Jericho answered not a word, but withdrew his hand from his breast: between his finger and his thumb he held, in silver purity, a virgin Bank of England note!
“What a dear, good creature you are, Jericho”—said his wife “to surprise me in this manner! To bring a note for the exact amount with you! Just a hundred! Well, you are a love,” and hastily pressing him round the neck, Mrs. Jericho ran from the room, as though embarrassed by the freedom.