"You don't thank me," he said angrily, as she went over to the escritoire and got his cheque book. "Grasping! ungrateful!"
"I'm not ungrateful," she retorted, bringing the pen and ink to him with the cheque book, and a block of blotting paper to write on, "but I do thank you. I was never one for lip service."
"Bah! women are all alike," he said viciously, sitting up in bed, and seizing the pen. "Go and bring me some letter paper and an envelope."
She did so, and returned to his bedside by the time he had written the cheque.
"I've post-dated this cheque," he said cunningly, "because I won't send it to him till just before I die."
"What do you mean by post-dated?"
"This is the twelfth," he replied, smoothing out the letter paper, "I have dated it the thirtieth."
"How do you know you'll die then?"
"I don't know if I will, you fool," he retorted angrily, "but I think so--if I don't I'll write another cheque."
"Yes, and change your mind."