Murray was just sitting down to dinner, but Beckford insisted that he should return with him immediately.
“You’ve got to straighten this matter out!” he told him excitedly. “You’ve got to give her all the insurance she wants without any restrictions! Make it fifty thousand dollars if she wants it! I’ll pay the premiums, if we have to starve!”
“But I can’t give her a policy to-night!” protested Murray.
“You can tell her about it to-night, can’t you?” demanded Beckford. “And you can take her application to-night, can’t you? Why, man, she has convinced herself that she’s going to die in a week! We can settle the details later, but we’ve got to do something to-night.”
“Oh, well, I’ll come immediately after dinner,” said Murray.
“You come now!” cried Beckford. “If you talk dinner to me, I’ll brain you! Insurance has made a wreck of me already.”
“I haven’t been getting much joy out of this particular case myself,” grumbled Murray, but he went along.
The moment he reached home, Beckford rushed to his wife’s room.
“It’s all a mistake!” he exclaimed joyfully. “You—you mustn’t cry any more, dearest, for it’s all right now. Mr. Murray didn’t understand at first—thought you were one of these capricious, careless, thoughtless women that do all sorts of absurd and foolish things on impulse—but he knows better now. There aren’t any more restrictions for you than for me, and he’s waiting in the parlor to take your application for all the insurance you want.”
“Really?” she asked, as the sobs began to subside.