“I mean, what dreadful crime have you committed? When I do anything like that, anything—er—kind-hearted and noble—which is very, very seldom—it’s because I’ve been naughty. That’s how I square myself with what would be my conscience if I had one. Isn’t that the way with you?”
“I got his books because I had the money and he didn’t and he needed them. You heard him say he’d pay me back. It’s merely a business arrangement.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly! My fault!”
“Well, then, dry up,” grumbled Ira.
“But I haven’t said anything, have I?”
“You’ve looked things, though.”
“Have I? Well, I’ll stop looking things, Ira. I suppose you don’t want me to say that you’re a—a rather decent sort, eh?”
“I do not,” answered Ira emphatically.
“Then I won’t. I do wish, though, that you’d let me ask you one tiny little question. It’s this. Pardon me, I prithee, if it sounds impertinent. Are you—that is, have you—oh, gosh! I’ll try again. Are you a wealthy citizen, Ira?”