As Lizzie bent over her work basting the new seams in fitting her last dress, the Mistress of the White House suddenly stopped the nervous movement of her rocking-chair.
"He demands a thousand dollars to-night, Lizzie?"
"Swears he'll take the whole account to the President to-morrow unless he gets it, Madam."
"You tried to make him reasonable?"
"Begged him for an hour."
"That's what I get for trading with a little rat in Philadelphia. I'll stick to Stewart hereafter."
She rose with a gesture of nervous rage:
"Well, there's no help for it then. I must ask him. I dread it. Mr. Lincoln calls me a child—a spoiled child. He's the child. He has no idea of what these things cost. Why can't a Nation that spends two millions a day on contractors and soldiers give its President a salary he can live on?"
She threw herself on the lounge and gave way for a moment to despair.
"He'll give it to you, of course, when you ask it," Lizzie ventured cheerfully.