"Regard it in the light of a family investment," suggested the soothing Chiffield.
"You diabolical scoundrel!" yelled Mr. Whedell, in a partial asphyxia of rage; "if I had a million dollars to-day, I wouldn't give you a cent. You should starve first. But I want to tell you--and hang me if it isn't a pleasure, too--that I am a beggar, sir--a beggar, sir--a beggar, sir! By noon to-day I shall be turned out of this house. And, by Jove! I'm glad of it, for then I shall get rid of you." During this adagio passage, the speaker shook his fist within a few inches of Chiffield's nose.
The summery Chiffield answered, with a hearty laugh: "I see," said he; "it's a regular sell on both sides. However, neither of us is worse off than he was, since neither of us had anything. As for me, I have gained one point, for I have a tolerably good-looking wife."
Mr. Whedell was about to retort in a vein of unmitigated ferocity, when Mrs. Chiffield, who had been listening in the entry, and could contain herself no longer, rushed into the room, and, brandishing a small clenched hand in the face of her laughing spouse, forcibly observed:
"You sneaking, swindling, cheating, lying, black-hearted, ill-looking pauper, scoundrel, and vagabond!"
"Very prettily said," remarked the imperturbable Chiffield.
"You miserable thief!" continued his matrimonial partner, aiming a blow at him, which he playfully parried; "why didn't you tell me you were a beggar?"
"Why? Because you didn't ask me. For that matter, why didn't you or your father tell me that you were beggars?"
"I sha'n't answer your insulting questions, you mean, deceiving, ugly, ungentlemanly--" (no other epithet suggesting itself.) At this crisis, the infuriated wife burst into tears, and wished several times that she was dead.
"Poor, dear wifey!" said the emollient Chiffield.