"I am Gilead P. Beck, madam," he replied.
He was standing before the fireplace, with his long hands thrust into his pocket, one foot on an adjacent chair, and his head thrown a little back—defiantly.
"You have received two letters from me, Mr. Beck, written by my own hand, and—how many circulars, child?'
"Twenty," said the girl.
"And I have had no answer. I am come for your answer, Mr. Beck. We will sit down, if you please, while you consider your answer."
Mr. Beck took up a waste paper basket which stood at his feet, and tossed out the whole contents upon the table.
"Those are the letters of yesterday and to-day," he said. "What was yours, madam? Was it a letter asking for money?"
"It was."
"Yesterday there were seventy-four letters asking for money. To-day there are only fifty-two. May I ask, madam, if you air the widow who wants money to run a mangle?"
"Sir, I am unmarried. A mangle!"