“Well, I should love to be like her. She is a dear little sister.”
“But not as dear as her sister.”
“Thank you,” said Margaretta, prettily, turning and curtseying to him, as he followed her along the garden paths. “Now, here we are among the roses. Just drag out those two chairs from the arbour, or will you get into the hammock?”
“I’ll take the hammock,” he said, wearily. “I feel as if I were falling to pieces.”
“Let me arrange some cushions under your head so—this cool breeze will soon drive the business fog from your brain.”
“No, it won’t—the fog is too heavy.”
“What kind of a fog is it?” asked Margaretta, cautiously.
Her husband sat up in the hammock, and stared at her with feverish eyes. “Margaretta, I think we had better give up this house and take a smaller one.”
“I knew it,” said Margaretta, triumphantly. “I knew you were worried about your affairs!”
“Then you won’t feel so surprised,” he said, “when I tell you that we can’t stand this pace. We’ve had some heavy losses down at the iron works lately—mind you don’t say anything about it.”