Charlton gnawed his lips in helpless anger.
Madam had played her cards so well, that it was a stipulation she and her daughter should have each a large allowance, in the spending of which they were to be independent. Drawing forth her purse, she took from it three one hundred dollar bills, a fifty, and a ten, and handed them to Pompilard.
“Do you wish to pay in advance, Madam?” he asked.
“I wish that money to be paid directly to the author, to aid him in his patriotic labors,” she replied. “There need be no receipt, and there need be no delivery of books.”
Pompilard took the bills and looked her in the face. He felt that words would be impertinent in conveying his thanks. She gave him one sad, sweet smile of acknowledgment of his silent gratitude. “Major Purling,” said he, in a tone that trembled a little, “will be greatly encouraged by your liberality. I will bid you good morning, Madam. Good morning, Mr. Charlton!”
Husband and wife were left alone.
“That’s the way you fool away my money, is it, Mrs. Charlton? Three hundred and sixty dollars disposed of already! A nice morning’s work!”
“You speak of the money as yours, sir. You forget. By contract it is mine. I shall spend it as I choose. Does not our agreement say that my allowance and my daughter’s shall be absolutely at our disposal?”
“Those allowances, Mrs. Charlton, must be cut down to meet the state of the times. I can’t afford them any longer.”
“Sir, you say what you know to be untrue. Your profits from the rise in exchange alone, since the war began, have already been two hundred thousand dollars. The rise in your securities generally has been enormous. And yet you talk of not affording the miserable pittance you allow me and my daughter!”