"Thought telepathy," she responded gayly. "I was taking account of stock when you appeared. I have in this bag, one pencil, one handkerchief, one perfectly good club-membership card—good, that is, until January first—and a book of two-cent stamps. Those stamps won't imperil our hopes of the inheritance, will they?" she asked with exaggerated anxiety. "Caleb Lawson held me up before I boarded the train. I had to sign a paper and show him my empty purse to prove that I was really the Beggar-maid, bare-pursed instead of barefooted, following my King Cophetua out into the cold, cold world."
"Your simile is faulty. As I remember it the Beggar-maid loved the King."
"Also the King loved the Beggar-maid. You're right, the similarity ceases with my lack of funds."
"I shall open an account for you in the bank at Slippy Bend. Until then——" his hand went to his pocket. The girl's face whitened.
"Don't offer me money, Steve," she commanded tensely.
"I'm not offering money. I am giving you what belongs to you. Aren't you earning what Uncle Nick left as well as I?"
"Weren't you earning your share of Father's money when you married me?"
"That's different."
"Why? You refused to take my money. I refuse to take yours."
"You will take it."