“But it’s so long to wait until to-morrow,” she pouted.
He regretted the delay quite as much as she did, for his experience up to date led him to think that there might be another change. First she had refused to consider the matter at all; then she had insisted they should go together; after that she had backed out; next she had demanded he should give up the idea, also; and now she was again determined it should be a joint affair.
“No man,” he muttered, as he dropped off to sleep, “knows anything about a woman until he marries, and then he only learns enough to know that he knows nothing at all.”
Then he mentally apologized to his wife for even this mild criticism, and dreamed that, through some complication, he had to insure the cook and the janitor and the grocer’s boy before he could take out a policy on his own life, and that, when he had attended to the rest, he had no money left for his own premiums, so he made all the other policies in favor of his wife and hoped to thunder that the cook and the janitor and the grocer’s boy would die a long time before he did.
However, she was still of the same mind the next day, so they went to see Murray.
“Of course,” she said, as they were on the way, “if this thing wrecks our happiness by showing that the grave is yawning for either of us, it will be all your fault.”
That made him feel nice and comfortable—so nice and comfortable that he heartily wished he never had mentioned life insurance. Still, he cheered up a little when Murray took charge of matters in a masterly, confident way.
“I understand, Mrs. Beckford,” said Murray, “that both you and your husband wish to have your lives insured.”
“Yes,” she replied, “and for some reason he has selfishly wanted to put all the insurance we can afford on his own life.”
“So he has told me.”