“Aunt Maggie had had a sudden attack of the hedges.  I guess everybody has got to go on a spree once in their life.  A man spends his on highballs, and a woman gets woozy on clothes.  But with forty million dollars—­say, I’d like to have a picture of—­but, speaking of pictures, did you ever run across a newspaper artist named Lathrop—­a tall—­oh, I asked you that before, didn’t I?  He was mighty nice to me at the dinner.  His voice just suited me.  I guess he must have thought I was to inherit some of Aunt Maggie’s money.

“Well, Mr. Man, three days of that light-housekeeping was plenty for me.  Aunt Maggie was affectionate as ever.  She’d hardly let me get out of her sight.  But let me tell you.  She was a hedger from Hedgersville, Hedger County.  Seventy-five cents a day was the limit she set.  We cooked our own meals in the room.  There I was, with a thousand dollars’ worth of the latest things in clothes, doing stunts over a one-burner gas-stove.

“As I say, on the third day I flew the coop.  I couldn’t stand for throwing together a fifteen-cent kidney stew while wearing, at the same time, a $150 house-dress, with Valenciennes lace insertion.  So I goes into the closet and puts on the cheapest dress Mrs. Brown had bought for me—­it’s the one I’ve got on now—­not so bad for $75, is it?  I’d left all my own clothes in my sister’s flat in Brooklyn.

“‘Mrs. Brown, formerly “Aunt Maggie,"’ says I to her, ’I’m going to extend my feet alternately, one after the other, in such a manner and direction that this tenement will recede from me in the quickest possible time.  I am no worshipper of money,’ says I, ’but there are some things I can’t stand.  I can stand the fabulous monster that I’ve read about that blows hot birds and cold bottles with the same breath.  But I can’t stand a quitter,’ says I.  ’They say you’ve got forty million dollars—­well, you’ll never have any less.  And I was beginning to like you, too,’ says I.

“Well, the late Aunt Maggie kicks till the tears flow.  She offers to move into a swell room with a two-burner stove and running water.

“‘I’ve spent an awful lot of money, child,’ says she.  ’We’ll have to economize for a while.  You’re the most beautiful creature I ever laid eyes on,’ she says, ‘and I don’t want you to leave me.’

“Well, you see me, don’t you?  I walked straight to the Acropolis and asked for my job back, and I got it.  How did you say your writings were getting along?  I know you’ve lost out some by not having me to type ’em.  Do you ever have ’em illustrated?  And, by the way, did you ever happen to know a newspaper artist—­oh, shut up!  I know I asked you before.  I wonder what paper he works on?  It’s funny, but I couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t thinking about the money he might have been thinking I was thinking I’d get from old Maggie Brown.  If I only knew some of the newspaper editors I’d—­”

The sound of an easy footstep came from the doorway.  Ida Bates saw who it was with her back-hair comb.  I saw her turn pink, perfect statue that she was—­a miracle that I share with Pygmalion only.