Here at last was an outlet
for that cash balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically with jewelry,--a
thick gold necklace round that little neck, bracelets upon the rounded arms,
and rings of price upon her hands,--the cool, temperate, ringless hands that he
had taken between his own. It was an absurd thought, for Maisie would not even
allow him to put one ring on one finger, and she would laugh at golden
trappings. It would be better to sit with her quietly in the dusk, his arm
around her neck and her face on his shoulder, as befitted husband and wife.
Torpenhow's boots creaked that night, and his strong voice jarred. Dick's brows
contracted and he murmured an evil word because he had taken all his success as
a right and part payment for past discomfort, and now he was checked in his
stride by a woman who admitted all the success and did not instantly care for
him.
"I say, old man," said Torpenhow, who had made one or two vain attempts at
conversation, "I haven't put your back up by anything I've said lately, have
I?"
"You! No. How could you?"
"Liver out of order?"
"The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a liver. I'm only a bit worried
about things in general. I suppose it's my soul."
"The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a soul.
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