The Doctor looked straight at the mantel-piece as he asked:—
“Where did you get that idea?”
“I don’t know; partly from nowhere, and”—
“Partly from Mary,” interrupted the Doctor. He put out his long white palm. “It’s all right. Give me the money.” Richling counted it into his hand. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his portemonnaie.
“You like to part with your hard earnings, do you, Richling?”
“Earnings can’t be hard,” was the reply; “it’s borrowings that are hard.”
The Doctor assented.
“And, of course,” said Richling, “I enjoy paying old debts.” He stood and leaned his head in his hand with his elbow on the mantel. “But, even aside from that, I’m happy.”
“I see you are!” remarked the physician, emphatically, catching the arms of his chair and drawing his feet closer in. “You’ve been smiling worse than a boy with a love-letter.”
“I’ve been hoping you’d ask me what’s the matter.”