“Let everybody look after their own business,” said Mr. Smithson, tartly. “Now, look here, Bob; suppose I get you out of this business, how am I to be sure you'll leave your property to me?—not that I want it. Suppose you altered your will?”
“If you get me out of it, every penny I leave will go to you,” said Mr. Clarkson, fervently. “I haven't got any relations, and it don't matter in the slightest to me who has it after I'm gone.”
“As true as you stand there?” demanded the other, eyeing him fixedly.
“As true as I stand here,” said Mr. Clarkson, smiting his chest, and shook hands again.
Long after his visitor had gone he sat gazing in a brooding fashion at the fire. As a single man his wants were few, and he could live on his savings; as the husband of Mrs. Phipps he would be compelled to resume the work he thought he had dropped for good three years before. Moreover, Mrs. Phipps possessed a strength of character that had many times caused him to congratulate himself upon her choice of a husband.
Slowly but surely his fetters were made secure. Two days later the widow departed to spend six weeks with a sister; but any joy that he might have felt over the circumstance was marred by the fact that he had to carry her bags down to the railway station and see her off. The key of her house was left with him, with strict injunctions to go in and water her geraniums every day, while two canaries and a bullfinch had to be removed to his own house in order that they might have constant attention and company.
“She's doing it on purpose,” said Mr. Smithson, fiercely; “she's binding you hand and foot.”
Mr. Clarkson assented gloomily. “I'm trusting to you, George,” he remarked.
“How'd it be to forget to water the geraniums and let the birds die because they missed her so much?” suggested Mr. Smithson, after prolonged thought.
Mr. Clarkson shivered.