Crabb smiled over the top of his coffee cup.
“What is it, Patty? A hat bill or an opera cloak? I’m prepared. Tell me the awful worst.”
“Don’t, Mort—please. I can’t bear you facetious. It’s—er—about Madame Jacquard’s bill and some others. They’ve gotten a little large and she—she wants me to help her out to-day—if I can—if you can—and I told her I would——”
Crabb was wrapped in contemplation of his muffin. But he allowed his wife to struggle through to the end. Then he looked up a little seriously from under heavy brows.
“Um—er—how much, Patty? A thousand? I think it can be managed——”
“No, Mort,” she interrupted, tremulously, “you see I have had to get so many things of late—we’ve been going out a great deal you know—a lot of other things you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh! Perhaps I might.”
“No—I—I’m afraid I’ve been rather extravagant this winter. I didn’t tell you but I—I’ve used up my allowance long—ever so long ago.”
Mortimer Crabb’s brows were now really menacing.