Mr. Mix wiped away a stray bead of perspiration, and breathed more freely. With Mirabelle’s money to back him, and the stigma of those two pamphlets removed, perhaps he had a fighting chance for the mayoralty yet.
It was a house-wedding, with very few guests, no decorations, and perfectly digestible refreshments. When the last of the party had 255 gone down the steps, Mirabelle, in a travelling-suit which was new in comparison with the rest of her wardrobe, approached the bridegroom.
“Theodore, I want you to have your gift before we start. I don’t want you to feel too dependent on me. Maybe after next month I’ll make some kind of a settlement on you, but that’s neither here nor there. So ... take it, and I hope it’s what you wanted.”
He took it, and his fingers trembled. A check? And for what generous amount?
“Well––aren’t you going to thank me?”
Mr. Mix tried to speak, but the lump in his throat prevented him. She had given him what was the legal equivalent of five thousand dollars, but it wasn’t in the form of a check. It was his own demand note, payable to John Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mirabelle. The word “Cancelled” was written, in Mirabelle’s angular hand, across the face of it.