Georgia took her pay envelope from her handbag. "See!"
Mrs. Talbot flattened out the creases in it and read it aloud. "Georgia Connor—weekly—twenty dollars." And drew forth a wonderful, round, golden double eagle. Whereupon Jim let his angry passions rise.
His wife—this cold-blooded, high-and-mighty creature, with her chin in the air, refused him a loan on the very same day she was raised. It was plain viciousness. It was almost a form of perversion. Forbearance, even his, had its limits.
"Why, Georgia," continued the mother, reading the inscription from the envelope in her hand, "how's this, they call you 'Miss,' Miss Georgia Connor—weekly—twenty dollars."
"Oh—ho," exclaimed Jim roughly, for now he felt that it was his turn. "Passing yourself off as unmarried, eh? A little fly work—hey? If I am easy, I draw the line somewhere."
"I was ashamed to let them know I was married and still had to work out," she responded evenly.
That was just the way it always happened. Georgia invariably ended up with the best of it.
"Well, well, let it pass, though it's not right. But you ought to let me have a dollar or two, considering. Why, I've got a right to some of your money. You've had plenty of mine in your time."
"For value received."
"You talk of marriage as if it was bargain and sale."