As she turned to face the house the remembrance of the unpaid hat bill laid a cold clutch on her heart. Until the first of next month she had exactly ten dollars at her credit, and that was Simeon’s—not hers—given to her for a specific purpose. She determined to throw herself upon his indulgence, confess her weakness and beg him to pay the bill for her. She had never before asked a personal favor of him, but was she justified in doubting his kindness, because of her own shyness and pride in concealing her needs? She almost persuaded herself he would be gratified at her request. After all, Simeon was not an anchorite; he had his moods like other men, and there were times when a rough passion marked his dealings with his wife; perhaps he had not been very felicitous in his rôle of lover, but the remembrance that there was such a side to his nature gave a fillip to her courage.
For the first time he would see her at her best; might not her prettiness—bah! the thought disgusted her! That she, a typical, housewifely, modest New England woman should be calculating on her beauty to draw money from a man’s pocket, even though that man were her husband, seemed to her immoral. She would plainly and directly ask him to pay the money, and there was the end of it. She opened the front door and went in.
The Ponsonby house was two stories high, built of wood and set a little back from the street, with flower beds bordering the path to the gate and neat grass plots on either side. Within, a small parlor and dining room on the right of the hall, and to the left a spacious study; behind that was the kitchen.
The door of the study was half open, and Simeon sat at his desk reading proof; one of his many contributions to a scientific periodical, and, judging by the pile of galley sheets, an important article. He had a way of pursing his lips and glaring through his spectacles when he read that gave him a look of preternatural wisdom. He was never what Deena’s cook called “a pretty man.”
Mrs. Ponsonby’s slim figure slid through the opening without pushing the door wide, and spoke with a kind of reckless gayety.
“Good-evening, Simeon,” she said, making a little courtesy; “you see, I have returned safely, ‘clothed and in my right mind.’”
He made a marginal note of cabalistic import before he swung round in his chair and looked at her over his spectacles.
“Hardly in your right mind, I should think,” he said, coldly.
“Don’t you like me in my new clothes?” she asked, twirling slowly round to give him the entire effect of her costume.
He was apt to be irritable when disturbed at his work, and Deena had not attached much importance to his speech.