"It's no use, cuzzy dear; you shall have an option on the help stock when there is any for sale, but at present there are no quotations."
Thus Connie, at the very end of the persuasive day. Upon which the young wife, with patience outwearing or outworn, retorts smartly:—
"I suppose you think it's heroic—your living like this; but it isn't. It is just plain poverty pride, which is all well enough to keep the crowd out, but which is simply wicked when it makes you shut the door in our faces. Think of it—you living here in three rooms at the top of a block when the Myriad has begun to pay dividends! I didn't mean to tell you just yet, but Dick is going to buy back the Colfax Avenue house, and it shall stand empty till doomsday if you won't go and live in it."
In times not long past Connie would have returned railing for railing—with interest added; but the reproachful day had been no less trying to her than to Myra, and the poverty fight—and some others—were sore upon her. Hence her disclaimer was of courageous meekness, with a smile of loving appreciation to pave the way.
"I hope Dick will do no such preposterous thing—unless you want it for yourselves. You know it would be quite out of the question for us to take it. Or to do anything but make the best of what has happened," she added.
Myra was standing at a window, looking down into the street where the early dusk was beginning to prick out the point-like coruscations of the arc-lights. There was that in Connie's eyes which beckoned tears to eyes sympathetic; and she found it easier to go on with her back turned upon the room and its other occupant.
"To make the best of it, yes; but you are not making the best of it. Or, if you are, the best is miserably bad. You are looking thin and wretched, as if—as if you didn't get enough to eat."
There was a touch of the old-time resilience in Connie's laugh. "How can you tell when you're not looking at me? Indeed, it hasn't come to that yet. We have enough, and a little to spare for those who have less."
Myra had been searching earnestly all day for some little rift into which the wedge of helpfulness might be driven, and here was an opening—of the vicarious sort.