At which she begins rockin' back and forth and moanin' doleful. A couple of hairpins works loose and drops to the floor.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," says I, "but you're goin' to lose the inside of that French roll if you keep on."
That fetched her out of it in a hurry. Grabbin' wild at her back hair, she sat up and faced us, with no signs at all of real weeps in her eyes.
"I won't live in the country, I won't!" she states explosive.
"Why, Mabel dear!" protests Mr. Wells.
"Ah, don't be an old bonehead!" comes back Mabel. "What's the idea, wishin' this Rube stuff on us? You can just count me out, Hacky, if that's the game. Do you get me?"
Hacky does. "I'm very sorry, Gentlemen," says he, "to ask you to modify your generous terms; but I feel that my wife's wishes in the matter ought to be taken into account."
"Why—er—to be sure," says J. Bayard. "I merely suggested your living in the country because it seemed to me the wisest plan; but after all——"
"Do we look like a pair of jays, I'd like to know?" demands Mrs. Wells indignant. "And another thing: I don't stand for this so much a month dope, either. What's the good of a little now and then? If we've got anything coming to us, why not hand it over annual? There'd be some sense to that. Stick out for once a year, Hacky."
Which he done. She had him well trained, Mabel did. He shrugs his shoulders, tries to smile feeble, and spreads out his hands. "You see, Gentlemen," says he.