“Oh. Do you feel apologetic?”
“I’m looking around, anyway.”
“You’d better save your energy. Mix’s amendment’s coming up pretty soon, and even if it doesn’t pass, I don’t see how we’re going to compete with this weather. It’s so abominably beautiful that it’s––sickening.”
“Oh––Mix!” she said, scornfully. “It gives me the creeps just to hear his name! He’s a nasty hypocrite, and a sneak, and a––How long do you suppose he’ll be hurrying around with that pious air after he gets his money? Why, he won’t even stay in the League!”
Henry grimaced. “You’re wrong. If he gets his money, he will stay in the League, and I’ll bet on it.”
There was a short silence. “Henry,” she burst out, “everything considered, I believe he wants your uncle’s money more than we do!”
“Whichever one of us gets it,––” said Henry grimly, “––He’ll earn it!”
When he recalled his previous years of irresponsibility, he was staggered to realize how little a fifty dollar bill had meant to him. It had meant a casual request across the breakfast table; now, it meant that seventy-five or a hundred people were willing to pay him a few cents apiece for the result of his headaches; and the absence of those people, and the 241 failure of those receipts, meant the difference between achievement and bitter downfall.