“Well, I don’t know any thing about it,” I replied, abashed at my own ignorance. “Will a hundred do it?”
“Hardly. I can’t tell precisely what it will cost, but I think Mrs. Gordon Grahame’s did not cost less than a hundred and twenty. Don’t be angry with me, Paley. Don’t look so cold!”
“I am neither angry nor cold, dearest,” I answered, pulling out my portmonnaie, and taking therefrom one hundred and fifty dollars, which I handed to her.
It was the half I had left of what I had stolen that day—for, in the light of after days, I may as well call the act by its true name. I could not bear to have her accuse me of being angry, or of being cold, or of grudging her any thing I had, or any thing I could get.
“O, thank you, Paley! How generous you are!” she exclaimed, giving me a rapturous kiss.
She was satisfied, and so was I. We talked and read and played backgammon till ten o’clock.
“Paley, won’t you take a glass of wine?” she asked. “We had some left the other night.”
“I don’t care, Lilian. Did I tell you how much that party cost?”
“No.”