"And you may tell Scipio to bring me out a bottle of the green-sealed
Madeira," he commanded, on the evening of the twentieth.
"The green-sealed Madeira?" echoed Miss Marty. "You know, of course,
that there is but a dozen or so left?"
"A dozen precisely; and to-day is the twentieth. That leaves"--the
Major drummed with his fingers on the mahogany--"a bottle a night and
one over. That last one I reserve to drink on the evening of May-day
if all goes well. One must risk something."
"Solomon!"
"Eh?" The Major looked up in surprise. Although a kinswoman, Miss
Marty had never before dared to address him by his Christian name.
"One must risk something; or rather, I should say, one must leave a
margin. If Hansombody calls, you may send out the brown sherry."
"Forgive me, cousin. I see you going about your daily business, calm
and collected, as though no shadow hung on us--"
"A man in my position has certain responsibilities, my dear Martha."
"Yes, yes; I admire you for it. Do not think that for one moment I
have failed in paying you that tribute. I often wish," pursued Miss
Marty, somewhat incoherently, "that I had been born a man. I trust
the aspiration is not unwomanly. I see you going about as if nothing
were happening or likely to happen, and me all the while half dead in
my bed, and hearing the clock strike and expecting it every moment.
As if the French weren't bad enough! And the Vicar may say what he
likes, but when I hear you ordering up the green-sealed Madeira I
know you're like me, and in your heart of hearts can't see much
difference between it and the end of the world, for all the brave
face you put on it.
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