“I think you ought to know, Mr. Colwell,” she said, meaningly.
“Well, I really don’t. I remember you wouldn’t heed my advice when I told you not to sell out, and again when I advised you to buy them back.”
“Yes, at 96½,” she burst out, indignantly.
“Well, if you had, you would to-day have a profit of over $7,000.”
“And whose fault is it that I haven’t?” She paused for a reply. Receiving none, she went on: “But never mind; I have decided to accept your offer,” very bitterly, as if a poor widow could not afford to be a chooser; “I’ll take those bonds at 96½.” And she added, under her breath: “Although it really ought to be 93.”
“But, Mrs. Hunt,” said Colwell, in measureless astonishment, “you can’t do that, you know. You wouldn’t buy them when I wanted you to, and I can’t buy them for you now at 96½. Really, you ought to see that.”
Cousin Emily and she had gone over a dozen imaginary interviews with Mr. Colwell—of varying degrees of storminess—the night before, and they had, in an idle moment, and not because they really expected it, represented Mr. Colwell as taking that identical stand. Mrs. Hunt was, accordingly, prepared to show both that she knew her moral and technical rights, and that she was ready to resist any attempt to ignore them. So she said, in a voice so ferociously calm that it should have warned any guilty man: “Mr. Colwell, will you answer me one question?”
“A thousand, Mrs. Hunt, with pleasure.”
“No; only one. Have you kept the bonds that I bought, or have you not?”
“What difference does that make, Mrs. Hunt?”