request as it appears. I want
you, in fact, to--write me--a check!"

Sir Penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled little
hand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own.

"For how much?" he asks.

"Not much,--only fifty pounds. I want to buy something particular for
this ball: and"--glancing at him--"being a lone woman, without a
protector, I dread going too heavily into debt."

"Good child," says Sir Penthony. "You shall have your check." Drawing
the book toward him as it lies before him on the davenport, he fills up
a check and hands it to her.

"Now, what will you give me for it?" asks he, holding the edge near him
as her fingers close upon the other end.

"What have I to give? Have I not just acknowledged myself insolvent? I
am as poor as a church mouse."

"You disparage yourself. I think you as rich as Croesus. Will you--give
me a kiss?" whispers her husband, softly.

There is a decided pause. Dropping the check and coloring deeply, Cecil
moves back a step or two. She betrays a little indignation in her
glance,--a very little, but quite perceptible. Stafford sees it.

"I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, an expression of mingled pain
and shame crossing his face. "I was wrong, of course. I will not buy
your kisses. Here, take this bit of paper, and--forgive me."

He closes her somewhat reluctant fingers over the check. She is still
blushing, and has her eyes fixed on the ground, but her faint anger has
disappeared. Then some thought--evidently a merry one--occurs to her;
the corners of her mouth widen, and finally she breaks into a musical
laugh.

"Thank you--very much," she says. "You are very good. It is something
to have a husband, after all. And--if you would really care for
it--I--don't mind letting you have one----Oh! here is somebody coming."

"There always _is_ somebody coming when least wanted," exclaims
Sir Penthony, wrathfully, pushing back his chair with much suppressed
ire, as the door opens to admit Mr. Potts.

"'I hope I don't intrude,'" says Potts, putting his comfortable face
and rosy head round the door; "but I've got an idea, and I must divulge
it or burst. You wouldn't like me to burst, would you?" This to Lady
Stafford, pathetically.

"I would not,--here," replies she, with decision.

"For fear you might, I shall take my departure," says Sir Penthony, who
has not yet quite recovered either his disappointment or his temper,
walking through