we will harvest our own vineyards, eh? And knowing your Mother’s delicate health and that timorousness which such delicately nutured Southern ladies would naturally feel regarding matters of business, and their charming proneness to divulge unwittingly such matters in conversation, I would suggest that you do not mention it to her at all. On second thought, I advise you not to do so. It might be better to simply restore this sum to the bank at some future date, say, in a lump sum with the other small sums for which I am indebted to her, and say nothing about it at all. It is our duty to shield her from the crass material
“What do you want to do about it?” I says, flipping it across the table.
“I know you grudge what I give him,” she says.
“It’s your money,” I says. “If you want to throw it to the birds even, it’s your business.”
“He’s my own brother,” Mother says. “He’s the last Bascomb. When we are gone there wont be any more of them.”
“That’ll be hard on somebody, I guess,” I says. “All right, all right,” I says, “It’s your money. Do as you please with it. You want me to tell the bank to pay it?”
“I know you begrudge him,” she says. “I realise the burden on your shoulders. When I’m gone it will be easier on you.”
“I could make it easier right now,” I says. “All right, all right, I wont mention it again. Move all bedlam in here if you want to.”
“He’s your own brother,” she says, “Even if he is afflicted.”
“I’ll take your bank book,” I says. “I’ll draw my check today.”