Here's another: 'I'm ninety-five! I'm ninety-five!' You catch the
drift of that, of course--a healthy old age, secured by taking Poulter's
Pills. Ah! what's this? 'Little sister's last request.' I fancy the idea
of that is to beg the family never to be without Poulter's Pills. Here
again: 'Then you'll remember me!' I'm afraid that title is not original;
never mind, the song is. And here is--but there are many more, and I won't
detain you with them now." He saw, perhaps, I was getting impatient. Thank
Heaven, however, he was no escaped lunatic. I was safe!
"Mr. Poulter," said I, "I took you this afternoon for a disinterested and
philanthropic millionaire; you take me for--for--something different from
what I am. We have both made mistakes. In a word, it is impossible for me
to accept your offer!"
"Is that final?" asked Poulter.
"Certainly," said I.
Poulter gathered his manuscripts together and replaced them in the bag,
and got up to leave the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Dale," he said mournfully, as I opened the door of the
room. "Good evening"--he kept on talking till he was fairly out of the
house--"mark my words, you'll be sorry--very sorry--one day that you did
not fall in with my scheme. Offers like mine don't come every day, and you
will one day regret having refused it."
With these words he left the house.
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