“Well, Poley, if you do not care to dream on the cake yourself you can give it to some young friends of yours, to one of your many cousins or nieces; they will be glad to have it.”
Then she threw off her turban and her wraps, drew off her gloves and sank into an easy-chair before the fire.
“After all, it is good to be quiet at home, is it not, Cleve? I love this little snuggery of ours. We can live very happily here until next May, and then flit to the woods and mountains again. I think I like our simple way of life. Cleve, quite as well, if not better, than if you spent all the revenues of your Mississippi plantation in living in the grand style of some of our friends. What do you think, Cleve?” she inquired, stretching out her pretty feet to the grateful warmth of the fire.
He did not answer in words—he could not; he laid his hand tenderly on her curly, black hair and turned slowly away and went out of the room.
Palma received the caress as a full assent to all that she had said, and smiled to herself as she gazed into the fire.
Cleve Stuart went downstairs and out upon the sidewalk, and paced up and down before the house. This was his nightly promenade ground, where he came to smoke his cigar. But this evening he had no cigar, nor even the wherewithal to get one.
Yes, it had come to this—Cleve Stuart was absolutely penniless. He had paid out his last dime on the horse cars that brought himself and his wife from the wedding breakfast. This was Saturday, the second of December. On Monday, the fourth, their month’s rent would be due, and there was not a penny to meet it.
What should he do?
If all his remaining earthly possessions were pawned they would not bring money enough to meet the demand of their landlord.
Nor could he hope for any forbearance from that quarter. The terms of the contract were strict, and amounted, in brief, to this: “Pay or go.”