laundry-money that I've been saving goes, Harry? The marmalade-money I
made the last two Christmases? The velvet muff I made myself out of the
fur-money you give me? It's all in the Farmers' Trust, Harry. With the two
hundred and ten I had to start with five years ago, it's twenty-six hundred
and seventeen dollars and fifty cents now. I've been saving it for this
kind of a minute, Harry. When it got three thousand, I was going to tell
you, anyways. Is that enough, Harry, to do the Goldfinch-Goetz spectacle on
your own hook? Is it, Harry?"

He regarded her in a heavy-jawed kind of stupefaction.

"Woman alive!" he said. "Great Heavens, woman alive!"

"It's in the bank, waiting, Harry--all for you."

"Why, Millie, I--I don't know what to say."

"I want you to have it, Harry. It's yours. Out of your pocket, back into
it. You got capital to start with now."

"I--Why, I can't take that money, Millie, from you!"

"From your wife? When she stinted and scrimped and saved on shoe-leather
for the happiness of it?"

"Why, this is no sure thing I got on the brain."

"Nothing is."

"I got nothing but my own judgment to rely on."