"So you think that you are lucky to have my husband working for you, do you, Mr. Black?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed; he is a mighty fine man, and I think a lot of him, Mrs. Larsen." I spoke with all sincerity.
"Do you know how old my husband is?"
"Why, n-no. How old is he?" I couldn't see any reason for her question, which was asked in the same frigid manner, but I responded with polite interest.
"Fifty-four," was her response.
"Is he that old?" I was floundering, for I felt that I had altogether missed my aim in trying to pacify her.
"Yes, fifty-five next January. . . . And after forty years' work he is very valuable to a hardware store—so valuable that he gets twenty dollars a week!"
Hadn't I got my foot into it! "T-that's nothing like your husband's real value, Mrs. Larsen," I stuttered, "b-but you know I've only had the store about six months and I had some very heavy losses at the beginning."
"So my husband should bear your loss, is that it?"
I was getting angry and was about to make some tart rejoinder; but, just as I was about to speak, I felt Betty's hand on my shoulder. She had quietly come into the room and heard Mrs. Larsen's last remark. To my surprise, Betty took over the conversation.