But Mahony was still hard at work. The job of winding up and
getting in the money owed him was no light one. For the report had
somehow got abroad that he was retiring from practice because he had
made his fortune; and only too many people took this as a tacit
permission to leave their bills unpaid.
He had locked himself and his account-books into a small back room,
where stood the few articles they had picked out to carry with them:
Mary's sewing-table, his first gift to her after marriage; their modest
stock of silver; his medical library. But he had been forced to lower
the blind, to hinder impertinent noses flattening themselves against the
window, and thus could scarcely see to put pen to paper; while the
auctioneer's grating voice was a constant source of distraction--not to
mention the rude comments made by the crowd on house and furniture, the
ceaseless trying of the handle of the locked door.
When it came to the point, this tearing up of one's roots was a
murderous business--nothing for a man of his temperament. Mary was a
good deal better able to stand it than he. Violently as she had opposed
the move in the beginning, she was now, dear soul, putting a cheery face
on it. But then Mary belonged to that happy class of mortals who could
set up their Lares and Penates inside any four walls. Whereas he was a
very slave to associations. Did she regret parting with a pretty table
and a comfortable chair, it was soley because of the prettiness and
convenience: as long as she could replace them by other articles of the
same kind, she was content.
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