“You’ compel’ to be witch some day, Mistoo Itchlin, ad that wate of p’ogwess; I am convince of that. I can deteg that indisputably in yo’ physio’nomie. Me—I can’t save a cent! Mistoo Itchlin, you would be aztonizh to know ’ow bad I want some money, in fact; exceb that I am too pwoud to dizclose you that state of my condition!”
He paused and looked from John to Mary, and from Mary to John again.
“Why, I’ll declare,” said Richling, sincerely, dropping forward with his chin on his hand, “I’m sorry to hear”—
But Narcisse interrupted.
“Diffyculty with me—I am not willing to baw’.”
Mary drew a long breath and glanced at her husband. He changed his attitude and, looking upon the floor, said, “Yes, yes.” He slowly marked the bare floor with the edge of his shoe-sole. “And yet there are times when duty actually”—
“I believe you, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, quickly forestalling Mary’s attempt to speak. “Ah, Mistoo Itchlin! if I had baw’d money ligue the huncle of my hant!” He waved his hand to the ceiling and looked up through that obstruction, as it were, to the witnessing sky. “But I hade that—to baw’! I tell you ’ow ’tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin; I nevvah would consen’ to baw’ money on’y if I pay a big inte’es’ on it. An’ I’m compel’ to tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I nevvah would leave money with Doctah Seveeah to invez faw me—no!”
Richling gave a little start, and cast his eyes an instant toward his wife. She spoke.
“We’d rather you wouldn’t say that to us, Mister ——” There was a commanding smile at one corner of her lips. “You don’t know what a friend”—
Narcisse had already apologized by two or three gestures to each of his hearers.