Her face betokened the liveliest interest. Mr.
Waddington sat like a musician listening to an ill-played rendering of
his favorite melody. Burton thrust his hand into his pocket.
"I failed to send you your three pounds on Saturday, Ellen," he said.
"Here are thirty--three hundred, if you will. Take them and leave me
for a little time."
It is not too much to say that Ellen grabbed at the notes. She counted
them carefully and thrust them into her reticule. Her manner was
indicating a change. The hard contempt had gone from her face. She
looked at her husband with something like awe. After all, this was the
signal and final proof of greatness--he had made money!
"Aren't you pleased about it?" she asked sharply. "Not that I ever
thought you'd have the wits to turn anything like this into real, solid
account!"
Burton set his teeth.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I cannot quite explain how I feel about
it. There will be plenty of money for you--for some time, at any rate.
You can buy the house, if you like, or buy one somewhere else."
"What about you?" she demanded. "Ain't you coming back?"
He did not move. She rose to her feet, raised her veil and came over to
where he was sitting.
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