"What amount, may I inquire, do you deem necessary for the present to insure prospective freedom for your son?"
"You know well enough, Almeda; I must have eighty thousand at least."
Mrs. Champney laughed aloud—the same mocking laugh of a miserable old age that had raised Octavius Buzzby's anger to a white heat of rage. Hearing it again, the man of Maine, without fully realizing what he was doing, turned back his cuffs. He could scarce restrain himself sufficiently to keep his promise to Aurora.
"Eighty thousand?—hm—m; between you and Octavius Buzzby there would be precious little left either at Champ-au-Haut or of it." She turned in her chair in order to look squarely up into the face of the woman on the opposite side of the table. "And you expect me to impoverish myself for the sake of Champney Googe?"
"It wouldn't impoverish you—you have your father's property and more too; he is of your own blood—why not?"
"Why not?" she repeated and laughed out again in her scorn; "why should I, answer me that?"
"He is your brother, Warren Googe's son—don't make me say any more, Almeda Champney; you know that nothing but this, nothing on earth—could have brought me here to ask anything of you!"
There was a ring of the old-time haughty independence in her voice; Octavius rejoiced to hear it. "She's getting a grip on herself," he said to himself; "I hope she'll give her one 'fore she gets through with her."
"Why didn't my brother save his money for him then—if he's his son?" she demanded sharply, but breathing short as she spoke the last words in a tone that conveyed the venom of intense hatred.
"Almeda, don't; you know well enough 'why'; don't keep me in such suspense—I can't bear it; only tell me if you will help."