“Fifty dollars.”
“That's a good deal, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is. But I can't afford to do a dishonorable thing for less money,” said Bartley, with a wink.
The next Sunday, when Marcia came home from church, she went into the parlor a moment to speak to Bartley before she ran upstairs to the baby. He was writing, and she put her left hand on his back while with her right she held her sacque slung over her shoulder by the loop, and leaned forward with a wandering eye on the papers that strewed the table. In that attitude he felt her pause and grow absorbed, and then rigid; her light caress tightened into a grip. “Why, how base! How shameful! That man shall never enter my doors again! Why, it's stealing!”
“What's the matter? What are you talking about?” Bartley looked up with a frown of preparation.
“This!” cried Marcia, snatching up the Chronicle-Abstract, at which she had been looking. “Haven't you seen it? Here's Mr. Kinney's life all written out! And when he said that he was going to keep it and write it out himself. That thief has stolen it!”
“Look out how you talk,” said Bartley. “Kinney's an old fool, and he never could have written it out in the world—”
“That makes no difference. He said that he told the things because he knew he was among gentlemen. A great gentleman Mr. Ricker is! And I thought he was so nice!” The tears sprang to her eyes, which flashed again. “I want you to break off with him. Bartley; I don't want you to have anything to do with such a thief! And I shall be proud to tell everybody that you've broken off with him because he was a thief. Oh, Bartley—”
“Hold your tongue!” shouted her husband.
“I won't hold my tongue! And if you defend—”