“But I am,” he retorted ruefully.
“Men,” she asserted, “are so impatient.”
Harry could not quite agree to this—he thought he had been wonderfully patient. In his straightforward way he began to ponder the matter deeply. It had seemed to him he was doing a wonderfully clever thing that ought to settle the matter definitely. Had he made a mistake? If so, what was necessary to rectify it? Incidentally, he heard that some of Tom Nelson’s little speculations had turned out favorably, and Tom was still quite as devoted as ever and seemed to be received with as much favor. Then to Harry came an idea—a really brilliant idea, he thought.
“Perhaps,” he told himself, “I ought not to have assigned that policy to her; perhaps I ought to have kept it in my control so that a wedding would be necessary to give her the benefit of it. As it is now, she has the policy, no matter whom she marries. I don’t think she would—”
Without finishing the sentence, Harry knitted his brow and shook his head. It was not a pleasant thought—he told himself it was an unjust thought—but, as he had gone in to win, he might as well take every precaution. If the conditions were a little different, it might put an end to her flirtatious mood and compel a more serious consideration of his suit; it might have a tendency to emphasize his point and “wake her up,” as he expressed it. Possibly, it was just the argument needed.
With this in mind, he again called upon Murray.
“I’m in a little trouble,” he explained. “I ought to have had that policy made out to my wife.”
“It makes no difference, unless the estate is involved in some way,” explained Murray. “She’ll get it through—”
“It makes a big difference,” interrupted Harry. “You see, I’ve got to get the wife.”
“What!” ejaculated Murray. “Say that again, please.”