"It—is," and "isn't" hung in the balance.
"It is not?" Rhoda dressed the question for him in the terror of contemptuous horror.
"It is. I—of course it is; how could it help being mine? My money? Yes. What sort o' thing's that to ask—whether what I've got's mine or yours, or somebody else's? Ha!"
"And you say you are not rich, uncle?"
A charming congratulatory smile was addressed to him, and a shake of the head of tender reproach irresistible to his vanity.
"Rich! with a lot o' calls on me; everybody wantin' to borrow—I'm rich! And now you coming to me! You women can't bring a guess to bear upon the right nature o' money."
"Uncle, you will decide to help me, I know."
She said it with a staggering assurance of manner.
"How do you know?" cried Anthony.
"Why do you carry so much money about with you in bags, uncle?"