“As for Ross,” he went on, “he’s keen and quick enough.  He’s got together quite a fortune of his own—­and he’ll hold on to it and get more.  It’s easy enough to make money if you’ve got money—­and ain’t too finicky about the look and the smell of the dollars before you gulp ’em down.  Your Ross has a good strong stomach that way—­as good as his father’s—­and mother’s.  But—­He ain’t exactly the man I used to picture as I was wheeling him up and down the street in his baby carriage in Saint X.”

That vulgar reminiscence seemed to be the signal for which Matilda was waiting.  “Charles Whitney,” she said, “you and I have brought up our children to take their proper place in our aristocracy of wealth and birth and breeding.  And I know you’re not going to undo what we’ve done, and done well.”

“That’s your ‘bossy’ tone, Mattie,” he drawled, his desire to talk getting a fresh excuse for indulging itself.  “I guess this is a good time to let you into a secret.  You’ve thought you ran me ever since we were engaged.  That delusion of yours nearly lost you the chance to lead these thirty years of wedded bliss with me.  If you hadn’t happened to make me jealous and afraid the one man I used to envy in those days would get you—­I laughed the other day when he was appointed postmaster at Indianapolis—­However, I did marry you, and did let you imagine you wore the pants.  It seemed to amuse you, and it certainly amused me—­though not in the same way.  Now I want you to look back and think hard.  You can’t remember a single time that what you bossed me to do was ever done.  I was always fond of playing tricks and pulling secret wires, and I did a lot of it in making you think you were bossing me when you were really being bossed.”

It was all Mrs. Whitney could do to keep her mind on how sick he was, and how imperative it was not to get him out of humor.  “I never meant to try to influence you, Charles,” she said, “except as anyone tries to help those about one.  And certainly you’ve been the one that has put us all in our present position.  That’s why it distressed me for you even to talk of undoing your work.”

Whitney smiled satirically, mysteriously.  “I’ll do what I think best,” was all he replied.  And presently he added, “though I don’t feel like doing anything.  It seems to me I don’t care what happens, or whether I live—­or—­don’t.  I’ll go to Saint X. I’m just about strong enough to stand the trip—­and have Schulze come out to Point Helen this evening.”

“Why not save your strength and have him come here?” urged Matilda.

“He wouldn’t,” replied her husband.  “Last time I saw him he looked me over and said:  ’Champagne.  If you don’t stop it you won’t live.  Don’t come here again unless you cut out that poison.’  But I never could resist champagne.  So I told myself he was an old crank, and found a great doctor I could hire to agree with me.  No use to send for Schulze to come all this distance.  I might even have to