He leaned toward Elizabeth and thrust out his right hand as if he expected her to make an answer that would materialize so that he could pick it up and kick it through the door on the toe of his boot.
“Have you any idea,” he shouted, “what that thing cost?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth quietly. “I heard Mahala say that she would like a piano lamp, so I looked at this same one yesterday, but I thought the price was out of all reason. They were asking thirty-five dollars for it.”
Mahlon arose to the height of the price. He paced the room, talking and gesticulating.
“I won’t have it!” he cried. “I won’t countenance it! Why, in order to keep even, the next time Junior has a birthday, I’ll be expected to help furnish Martin Moreland’s house. I am not in the furniture business.”
Mahlon arranged his cuffs and took a firm stand on widely spread feet; rocking thereon, he glared at his wife.
“Of course, dear,” she said soothingly, “it shall be exactly as you say. The Morelands are always obtrusive and vulgar; but I thought that perhaps, on account of your business relations with Mr. Moreland, he might be trying to express his appreciation of you, and your patronage of his bank, and your influence in helping him with other enterprises.”
Slowly Mahlon’s lower jaw dropped on its moorings. A look of astonishment crept into his eyes.
“You mean,” he said, “that you think the banker is using this opportunity to pay me a handsome compliment?”
“Why, it looks that way to me,” said Elizabeth. “It is the only feasible thing I could think of. There is no reason why the Morelands should spend such an appalling amount of money on Mahala. There must be some favour that Mr. Moreland wants of you, or some reason why he is anxious to keep your good will. You know, dear, that the one thing in all this world that Martin bitterly envies you is your popularity, the high regard in which you are held in this community. To make himself appreciated by his fellow citizens as they appreciate you, would please him far more than money.”