"Of course you will have what is your due, like the others."
"I'm sure he won't take it, Deb. He said he wouldn't."
"I don't care what he says. It concerns you and me—not him."
"I really should not miss it, dear. I am to have a thousand a year to draw against, for just nothing but my clothes and pocket-money."
"I am glad to hear it," said Deb. "You can give your own income to the poor."
"You really won't keep it?"
"Is it likely I would keep what doesn't belong to me?"
"Well, then," said Frances, her easy conscience satisfied, "we can put it into my trousseau. I MUST have a decent trousseau mustn't I?"
"Of course!"
Frances saw to it that she had a decent one. Now was the time, the only time, that she should want her money, and she did not spare it. She ordered right and left, and Deb seemed equally reckless. The bills were left for her to settle—of course made out in her name. Mr Ewing pressed for permission to pay them, and the cost of the wedding, and Miss Pennycuick could hardly forgive him the deadly insult. He also desired that she should occupy her villa rent-free, and she gave him notice on the spot.