“You are a great financier, Edith,” laughed her husband. “You have discovered the art of borrowing money without owing it.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Donald,” she protested. “I’m in earnest. I want you to take it—just to oblige me. You will—won’t you, dear?”
“Would you think just as much of me?” he asked, evidently revolving the matter carefully in his mind.
“How can you ask me such a question? It would be a mighty poor sort of a world, if we couldn’t help one another over a hard place, once in a while.”
Donald rose from his seat, and went over toward his wife. “I didn’t intend to speak of this, Edith,” he said, “but now that I have—perhaps poor Billy would be glad, if he knew. I’ll take it—but as a loan only, mind you, and with proper security.”
At this reference to West, Edith shivered slightly and turned away to hide her feelings. “How much do you need?” she asked in a strained voice. “Fifteen thousand?”
“Oh, no. Ten will be ample. But it isn’t necessary to bother about it now. Wait until I go back to town.”
“No, Don. You might change your mind. You’d best take it now.” She hurriedly began to write out a check. “You can send the mortgage, or note, or whatever it is, down to me—that is, if you really want to do it that way.”
“I certainly shouldn’t think of doing it any other,” said Donald.
Edith rose, and, going up to her husband, put the check in his hand. “Here, Donald,” she said. “I hope this will fix everything all right. If it does, it will make me very happy.”