She sat up; reached for her wrapper at the foot of the bed and bunched it about her shivering shoulders. He was immensely serious and dignified. He swayed a little. The slack look on his face. That was all.
“I’ll do the worrying,” he said, as though continuing the conversation that had held them at nine o’clock. He placed the malacca stick carefully in its corner. He removed his coat, keeping his hat on. The effect was startlingly rowdy, perhaps because he had always so meticulously observed the niceties. Standing thus, weaving back and forth ever so slightly, he pulled from his left vest pocket, where it fitted much too snugly, a plump bill-folder. Custom probably cautioned him to retain this, merely widening its open side to reveal the sheaf of notes within. But his condition, and all that had gone to bring it about, caused him to forego his cunning. With a vague, but successful, gesture, and a little lurch as he stood, he tossed the leather folder to the counterpane. “Coun’ it!” he commanded, very distinctly. “Ten one hun’er’ dollar bills and ten one hun’er’ dollar bills makes twen’y one hun’er’ dollar bills an’ anybody says it doesn’ is a liar. Two thousan’ dollars. Would you kin’ly count ’em, Mrs. Rav’nal? I believe”—with businesslike dignity—“I b’lieve you’ll find that correc’.”
Magnolia Ravenal in her nightgown with her wrapper hunched about her shoulders sat staring at the little leather booklet on the bed. Its gaping mouth mocked her. She did not touch it.
“Two thousand dollars?” she said.
“I b’lieve you’ll fin’ tha’s correc’.” He seemed to be growing less distinct.
“Where did you get this, Gay?”
“Never min’. I’ll do th’ worrying.”
He unbuttoned his vest with some difficulty. Yawned prodigiously, like one who has earned his rest after a good day’s work.
She looked at him. She was like a drawing in French ink—her face so white, her eyes so enormous, her hair so black.
“You got this from Hetty Chilson.”