"Oh, nothing, nothing!" he would answer.
"Hand it out, sir," I would say, and then I would find a fierce delight in sending six freezing words of refusal to some impudent woman who was trying to play upon the tender side of my big-hearted boy.
Oh, it was delightful! My whole being seemed to be renewed. If only the dear sweet hours could go on and on for ever!
Sometimes my husband and Alma would look in upon us at our work, and then, while the colour mounted to my eyes, Martin would say:
"I'm fishing with another man's floats, you see."
"I see," my husband would reply, fixing his monocle and showing his front teeth in a painful grin.
"Just what dear Mary loves, though," Alma would say. "I do believe she would rather he sitting in this sunless room, writing letters for Mr. Conrad, than wearing her coronet at a King's coronation."
"Just so, ma'am; there are women like that," Martin would answer, looking hard at her; and when she had gone, (laughing lightly but with the frightened look I had seen before) he would say, as if speaking to himself:
"I hate that woman. She's like a snake. I feel as if I want to put my foot on it."
At length the climax came. One day Martin rushed downstairs almost beside himself in his boyish joy, to say that all the money he needed had been subscribed, and that in honour of the maturing of the scheme the proprietor of the newspaper was to give a public luncheon at one of the hotels, and though no women were to be present at the "feed" a few ladies were to occupy seats in a gallery, and I was to be one of them.