“I tell you what, woman; I’ve read about men being fooled by their wives and turned round the thumb; but the way you turn me round beats everything I ever did read.”
“Yes,” she said, nestling to his side. “I like turning you round my thumb, dear; and let’s always go on to the end just the same, Jo-si-ah; and you’ll let me try to do some good.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Barclay, in his grimmest manner. “But, don’t you see, old lady, that this May Burnett is a worthless sort of baggage?”
“I can’t see anything, dear, only that poor Claire Denville, whom I love very much, is in great trouble, and that we are wasting time.”
“Wasting love, you mean,” cried Barclay. “If you’ve got so much love to spare, why don’t you pour it on my devoted head, to wash away some of the hate which people bestow upon me?”
“Jo-si-ah dear! Please.”
“All right,” he said grimly. “I’ll do it, old lady. Let’s see; the coach goes at half-past eleven. You’ve plenty of time. I’ll send Joseph. But tell me, where are you going?”
“To the Bell, in Holborn, dear, for the first day. Then I shall take apartments somewhere till it is all settled.”
“But the expense, woman?”
“I’ve plenty of jewels, dear. Shall I sell something?”