"Why, Miss Barb, you oughtn't to do that; how does that happen?" He spoke with the air of one who had never in his life lost a cent by carelessness.
"It's not so very much," was her reply. "It's for my share of Rosemont. I sold it to pop-a."
"What! just now when the outlook for Rosemont—why, Miss Barb, I do believe you did it to keep clear of our land company, didn't you?"
"Mr. March, I wish you would let me lend you some of it, won't you?"
"No, I'll be—surprised if I do. Oh, Miss Barb, I thank you just the same; but my father, Miss Barb, gave it to me, as a canon of chivalry, never to make a money bargain with a lady that you can't make with a bank. If I'm not man enough to get out of this pinch without—oh, pshaw!"
In the hotel, at the head of the ladies' staircase, they stood alone.
"Good-by," said John, unwillingly. "I'll see you this evening, shan't I, when I come up to say good-by to your friends?"
Barbara said he would. They shook hands, each pair of eyes confessing to the other the superfluity of the ceremony.
"Good-by," said John again, as if he had not said it twice already.
"Good-by. Mr. March, if you want to give securities—as you would to a bank—I—I shouldn't want anything better than your mother's poems."