“Fifty? It’s a great deal of money, Denville.”
“Lend him the fifty, Josiah, and don’t make so much fuss about it,” said the lady, opening the ledger, after drawing her chair to the table, taking a dip of ink, and writing rapidly in a round, clear hand. “Got a stamp?”
“Yes,” said Barclay, taking a large well-worn pocket-book from his breast, and separating one from quite a quire. “Fill it up. Two months after date, Denville?”
“You’ll pardon me.”
“What’s the use of doing a neighbour a good turn,” said Mrs Barclay, filling up the slip of blue paper in the most business-like manner, “and spoiling it by being so tight. ‘Six months—after—date—interest—at—five—per—centum’—there.”
Mrs Barclay put her quill pen across her mouth, and, turning the bill stamp over, gave it a couple of vigorous rubs on the blotting-paper before handing it to her husband, who ran his eye over it quickly.
“Why, you’ve put five per cent, per annum,” he cried. “Here, fill up another. Five per cent.”
“Stuff!” said Mrs Barclay stoutly; “are you going to charge the poor man sixty per cent? I shan’t fill up another. Here, you sign this, Mr Denville. Give the poor man his money, Josiah.”
“Well,” exclaimed Barclay, taking a cash-box from a drawer and opening it with a good deal of noise, “if ever man was cursed with a tyrant for a wife—”
“It isn’t you. There!” cried Mrs Barclay, taking the bill which the visitor had duly signed, and placing it in a case along with some of its kin.