“Of course—yes,” seizing the bill and tearing it open. “Here it is charged to me—forty-five dollars! and I suppose that young upstart is strutting around and feeling as fine as a turkeycock in a suit that cost three times what I mean it should.”
A spasmodic, but quickly repressed snort escaped Mrs. Kimberly at this passionate outburst.
“Ahem!” she supplemented, “’tis kind of a tough joke on you, ain’t it, squire?”
The man turned on her with a fierce imprecation.
“Maria Kimberly,” he thundered, “if you ever give it away I’ll make you sorry till your dying day. I should be the laughing-stock of the whole town if it became known.”
“Sure enough, so you would! But mum’s the word, if you say so, squire,” Maria asserted, with another hysterical catch of her breath. Then, with an effort at composure, she inquired: “Does it—the suit—fit you?”
“Fit! Do you suppose I’d put it on—that mass of shoddy?” snapped the man, with angry derision.
“Oh, then, you don’t intend to wear it?” observed Maria, with well-assumed surprise.
“Of course not.”
“But it’ll be almost like throwing away a lot of good money,” said the woman, who rather enjoyed piling on the agony.