"She only got a thousand dollars. At five per cent, that's fifty dollars a year."
Skinner swallowed hard to keep down the savage impulse that threatened to manifest itself in profanity whenever he thought of Honey's mother and his weakling brother-in-law.
"Honey," he said grimly, "does your mother in that letter ask you to help her out with that interest?"
Honey lifted her head proudly. "She does n't ask me anything. She does n't have to. She only tells me about it."
"Yes, she does n't have to."
"You know I 've always wanted to do something for her, and I've never been able to. I'm ashamed to neglect her now, when we're living so well and dressing so well—and you have your raise. It's only a dollar a week."
"Have you any more relatives who have a speculative tendency?" Skinner began with chill dignity.
"Now, Dearie!" Honey began to cry and Skinner got up from the table and went over and kissed her.
She had married him against mother's advice and had stood by him like a brick, and he'd do anything for her. He stroked her glossy hair. "You have always wanted to do something for her, have n't you? You're a good girl! Do it! Send her a dollar a week!"
Skinner resumed his place at the table. This was the climax, he thought, the ne plus ultra of it all! He was to contribute a dollar a week to his mother-in-law to make up a loss caused by the advice of a detested, silly-ass brother-in-law, who had always hated him, Skinner. Surely, the dress-suit account had reached the debt limit! He took out his little book and jotted down:—