“Well, really, my dear madam, I don't quite get at your meaning.”
“Will you let this store remain as it is, and rent those other saloons to honest business men for some other purpose than drinking-saloons?”
“O my dear, dear madam! What can you be thinking of? The rent that I get from those four buildings is equal in amount to any eight of the other buildings of the same size. I cannot, I cannot, consent to make any changes whatever.”
“You will not, then, do as I wish?”
“I cannot, my dear madam: I prefer to put it in that way,—I cannot. I do not see as you do in the matter. And as the law empowers me to use my own discretion in renting the buildings, investing money, etc., I shall be obliged to do so.”
Cicely got up: she was white as snow now, but as quiet as snow ever wus.
Mr. Post got up, too, about the politest actin' man I ever see, a movin' chairs out of the way, and a smilin', and a waitin' on us out. He was ready to give plenty of politeness to Cicely, but no justice.
And I guess he was kinder sorry to see how white and sad she looked, for he spoke out in a sort of a comfortin' voice,—
“You have had great sorrows, Mrs. Slide, but you have also a great deal to comfort you. Just think of how many other widows have been left in poverty, or, as you may say, penury, and you are rich.”
Cicely turned then, and made the longest speech I ever heard her make.