The
detestable subject of our poverty insisted on claiming attention when
there was a messenger outside, waiting for my poor Harry's last French
bank note.
"What is to be done?" I said, when we were left by ourselves again.
My husband's composure was something wonderful. He laughed and lit a
cigar.
"We have got to the crisis," he said. "The question of money has driven
us into a corner at last. My darling, have you ever heard of such a
thing as a promissory note?"
I was not quite so ignorant as he supposed me to be; I said I had heard
my father speak of promissory notes.
This seemed to fail in convincing him. "Your father," he remarked,
"used to pay his notes when they fell due."
I betrayed my ignorance, after all. "Doesn't everybody do the same?" I
asked.
He burst out laughing. "We will send the maid to get a bit of stamped
paper," he said; "I'll write the message for her, this time."
Those last words alluded to Fanny's ignorance of the French language,
which made it necessary to provide her with written instructions, when
she was sent on an errand. In our domestic affairs, I was able to do
this; but, in the present case, I only handed the message to her.
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