“More than half, sweetheart.”
“Don’t say ‘sweetheart’ to me in the same breath that you tell me I’m not worth being insured!” she cried. “It’s positively insulting, and—and—you always said you loved me.”
Her voice broke a little, and he was beside her in an instant.
“You don’t understand,” he explained. “Insurance has nothing to do with your value to me or my value to you, but there is a more worldly value—”
“Oh, you’re of some account in the world and I’m not!” she broke in, her indignation driving back the tears.
“Isabel, you’re simply priceless to me!”
“But, if I hadn’t happened to meet you, I suppose I’d be a nonentity!” she flashed back at him. “I’m just a piece of property that you happen to like, and—why, Harry Beckford, men insure property, don’t they?”
“Of course, but—”
“And I’m not worth insuring, even as property!” she wailed. “Oh, I didn’t think you could ever be so cruel, so heartless! You might at least let me think I’m worth something.”
The young husband was in despair. He argued, pleaded, explained in vain; she could only see that he put a value on his life that he did not put on hers, and it hurt her pride. Besides, they were partners in everything else, so why not in insurance?