“I don’t see what you could do, Edith, more than you are doing.”
“How is business, Donald?”
He began to walk gloomily up and down. “The work at the office is all right,” he said presently. “It’s that confounded glass plant that worries me. We haven’t enough working capital, and can’t seem to borrow any. The worst of it is, there’s a payment due on the property September first, five thousand dollars. You know the condition of the money-market, I suppose. The papers are full of it.”
“You mean about the stock-market?” asked Edith timidly.
Donald threw himself into a chair. “Yes,” he replied, “that and the Western Securities decision, and the failure of the Columbian Trust Company. Things look pretty bad. The banks are afraid to lend a dollar without gilt-edged security. Just my luck! Any other year things would have been different. You remember I was afraid of this, in the spring. I spoke to Billy West about it.”
“Why shouldn’t I lend you the money?” said Edith, coming over and standing by his chair.
“I couldn’t let you do that, dear,” he replied, looking up at her.
“But why? You know I have over twenty thousand dollars lying idle in the bank—interest, not principal. You must let me lend it to you. How much do you want?” She went over to a desk in the corner and drew a check-book from one of the drawers. “Please, Donald. It will be such a pleasure to me.” She looked at him in eager expectancy.
“I can’t accept it, Edith. I want to stand on my own feet. Now that you have all this money, I’m doubly anxious to do it. I don’t want to be just Mrs. Rogers’ husband.”
“You could never be that, dear. I want you to do all you say—can’t you see that’s one reason I’m so anxious to help you? We will make it a business transaction—you can give me a mortgage, or whatever you call it, just as if you were borrowing from some hard-fisted old miser. I have a perfect right to invest my money in a glass factory, if I please. You wouldn’t owe me anything.” She paused, smiling.