“Well, the case don’t come on till December,” Burrell replied. “I guess I could wait all right, only the’ ain’t no chance of you gettin’ beaten.”
“Well, I guess we don’t want you to be beaten, Mr. Briggs,” Mrs. Burrell cried, resentfully. “You’re forgettin’ your manners, father.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Briggs exclaimed, patting Burrell on the back. “No harm done, Mrs. Burrell. This husband of yours overrates me, that’s all. There are hundreds of men right here in New York who could handle that case better than I could.” He took the old man affectionately by the arm. “Look here, Burrell,” he said, confidentially, “don’t you think we’re in the way of these ladies? They probably have a lot to talk about that they don’t want us to hear.”
Burrell understood at once. “I was thinkin’ of that myself,” he replied.
Mrs. Burrell held up three fingers. “Now, father,” she cried, “you know all you’ve had already.”
“My dear lady, don’t you be disagreeable,” said Briggs, smiling. “I haven’t seen your husband for six months.”
Mrs. Burrell softened. “Well, just one, father, and put plenty of soda-water in it.”
Briggs nodded his acknowledgment of the concession. “There! Come on, Burrell.”
As the two men left the room Mrs. Burrell exclaimed: “I declare, Mrs. Briggs, that husband of yours can just twirl me round his little finger.”
“Come over here and sit down, Mrs. Burrell,” Helen said. “You have something to tell me, haven’t you? I can see it in your face.”