“Wear!” said he. “I shall wear anything John lays out,—a Roman toga, or Ingomar’s furs, or Shylock’s gown, or anything else. You didn’t for one moment suppose I was going to buy anything for that fool of a part, did you?” I sighed.
“Then let us not play the piece,” I ventured.
“Now look here, Jimmie,” was his answer, “you know you’ve wanted to play Pauline for years; you know I’ll never have any peace until we do play it. So don’t let us say any more about it.”
“But I don’t want to play it unless the piece is nicely dressed. I am having such lovely things made. You must have some as nice.”
“You’re a very foolish girl to buy a lot of new things for that idiotic piece,” he said.
I went to the other end of the room. I sat down and looked melancholy—as melancholy as a woman can who has fully determined to have her own way. My companion preserved a manly silence for at least three minutes, then he said:
“Look here, Jimmie, how much money do you want?”
“Oh! none, thank you so much,” I said as sadly as I could, “all my things are paid for.”
“How much money do you want to get my things with?”
“You are a dear, good boy,” I said; “and I’m sure you’ll make a lovely Claude.”