"A wife should know how her husband stands," he said huskily. "Ain't it so, Henrietta, leben?"
Mrs. Schrimm nodded again.
"Did you speak to Henry anything, Sam?" she asked.
"I didn't say nothing to Henry yet," Sam replied; "but if he's satisfied with the business I done for him this morning I would make him a partnership proposition."
"But, listen here to me, Sam," Mrs. Schrimm protested. "Me I am already fifty-five years old; and a man like you which you got money, understand me, if you want to get married you could find plenty girls forty years old which would only be glad they should marry you—good-looking girls, too, Sam."
"Koosh!" Sam cried, for he had noted a tear steal from the corner of Mrs. Schrimm's eye. He rose from his chair and seated himself on the sofa beside her. "You don't know what you are talking about," he said as he clasped her hand. "Good looks to some people is red cheeks and black hair, Henrietta; but with me it is different. The best-looking woman in the whole world to me, Henrietta, is got gray hair, with good brains underneath—and she is also a little fat, too, understand me; but the heart is big underneath and the hands is red, but they got red doing mitzvahs for other people, Henrietta."
He paused and cleared his throat again.
"And so, Henrietta," he concluded, "if you want me to marry a good-looking girl—this afternoon yet we could go downtown and get the license."
Mrs. Schrimm sat still for two minutes and then she disengaged her hand from Sam's eager clasp.
"All I got to do is to put on a clean waist," she said, "and I would get my hat on in ten minutes."