"Preposterous!" ejaculated Mr. Birtwell. "We'd make ourselves the laughing-stock of the city."
"Perhaps not," returned his wife.
Mr. Birtwell shook his head and shut his mouth tightly:
"There's no use in talking about it if the thing can't be done right, it can't be done at all."
"So say I. Still, I would do it right and show society a better way if you were brave enough to stand by my side. But as you are not, our party must go by default this winter."
Mrs. Birtwell smiled faintly to soften the rebuke of her words. They had reached this point in their conversation when Mr. Elliott, their clergyman, called. His interest in the Home for inebriates had increased instead of abating, and he now held the place of an active member in the board of directors. Mrs. Birtwell had, months before, given in her adhesion to the cause of reform, and the board of lady managers, who had a close supervision of the internal arrangements of the Home, had few more efficient workers.
In the beginning Mr. Birtwell had "pooh-poohed" at his wife's infatuation, as he called it, and prophesied an early collapse of the whole affair. "The best thing to do with a drunkard," he would say, with mocking levity, "is to let him die. The sooner he is out of the way, the better for himself and society." But of late he had given the matter a more respectful consideration. Still, he would have his light word and pleasant banter both with his wife and Mr. Elliott, who often dropped in to discuss with Mrs. Birtwell the interests of the Home.
"Just in the nick of time," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, smiling, as he took the clergyman's hand.
"My wife and I have had a disagreement—we quarrel dreadfully, you know—and you must decide between us."
"Indeed! What's the trouble now?" said Mr. Elliott, looking from one to the other.