“I’m willing to buy them,” she said resolutely, “at 93.” “Mrs. Hunt, I wish I could buy them for you at that price. But there are none for sale cheaper than 96½.” “Oh, why did I let you sell my bonds!” she said, disconsolately. “Well, you worried so much because they had declined that——” “Yes, but I didn’t know anything about business matters. You know I didn’t, Mr. Colwell,” she finished, accusingly. He smiled in his good-natured way. “Shall I buy the bonds for you?” he asked. He knew the plans of the syndicate in charge, and being sure the bonds would advance, he thought she might as well share in the profits. At heart he felt sorry for her. She smiled back. “Yes,” she told him, “at 93.” It did not seem right to her, notwithstanding his explanations, that she should pay 96½ for them, when the price a few days ago was 93. “But how can I, if they are 96½?” “Mr. Colwell, it is 93 or nothing.” She was almost pale at her own boldness. It really seemed to her as if the price had only been waiting for her to sell out in order to advance. And though she wanted the bonds, she did not feel like yielding. “Then I very much fear it will have to be nothing.” “Er—good morning, Mr. Colwell,” on the verge of tears. “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt.” And before he knew it, forgetting all that had gone before, he added: “Should you change your mind, I should be glad to——” “I know I wouldn’t pay more than 93 if I lived to be a thousand years.” She looked expectantly at him, to see if he had repented, and she smiled—the smile that is a woman’s last resort, that says, almost articulately: “I know you will, of course, do as I ask. My question is only a formality. I know your nobility, and I fear not.” But he only bowed her out, very politely. On the Stock Exchange the price of _Man. Elec. L. H. & P. Co. 5s_ rose steadily. Mrs. Hunt, too indignant to feel lachrymose, discussed the subject with her Cousin Emily and her husband. Emily was very much interested. Between her and Mrs. Hunt they forced the poor man to make strange admissions, and, deliberately ignoring his feeble protests, they worked themselves up to the point of believing that, while it would be merely generous of Mr. Colwell to let his friend’s widow have the bonds at 93, it would be only his obvious duty to let her have them at 96½. The moment they reached this decision Mrs. Hunt knew how to act. And the more she thought the more indignant she became. The next morning she called on her late husband’s executor and friend. Her face wore the look often seen on those ardent souls who think their sacred and inalienable rights have been trampled upon by the tyrant Man, but who at the same time feel certain the hour of retribution is near. “Good morning, Mr. Colwell. I came to find out exactly what you propose to do about my bonds.” Her voice conveyed the impression that she expected violent opposition, perhaps even bad language, from him. “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Why, what do you mean?”