"This is beyond all endurance, Mrs. Barter," said Richie, as he flung the bill on the ground.
Mrs. B. deliberately took it up, and appeared for a moment absorbed in thought. "I have it!—I have it!" at length she exclaimed, as the bewildered Richie stood staring at her abstraction.
"Well, Mrs. B.; and what have you—not forty thousand pounds?"
"No—a thought," said she seriously.
"A fiddle-stick!" cried Richie.
"No such thing, love!" and the fascinating Mrs. B. slid her arm round her helpmate's neck, and began to unfold her purpose. "You know," said she, "how I was disappointed in my just expectations at the death of Sir Toby. I had every reason to expect that the bulk of his property, which goes to his nephew, would have been mine. That young man is as yet unacquainted with the fact, and by the assistance of Smyrk, whom we might get over, he might remain so, and for a period sufficiently long for our purpose. Smyrk may manage that, and also to keep the world in ignorance of the matter. At present we have the reputation of being the sole owners of forty thousand pounds."
"Nonsense, Mrs. B.! What's in a name?" muttered Richie.
"I'll tell you what's in it. There is, in the first place, the credit derived from the reputation of that sum,—the splendour, the elegance, the comfort, the world's good opinion, the world's——"
"Laugh!" exclaimed Barter, with deriding bitterness, as he sneered at the chimera of his helpmate. "I'm a ruined man! I'm a beggar!—a fool!"
"You may be all three together, Mr. Barter, if you choose; but that would be too extravagant. Let us first settle this trifle of Smyrk's, whose bare whisper, you know, in the city, will settle the affair for us; and with your present savings, love,—isn't it four thousand pounds?—and the name of forty thousand pounds——"