"I'm going to pension Chat; she's got a horrid cough, poor thing, and will do much better in a snug little villa at the seaside. I've got my eye on one for her. I shall get a smart young woman, who dresses nicely, looks pretty, and knows something about frocks and millinery—which last necessary accomplishment of a lady's private secretary you have never even tried to acquire."
"Dear me, no more I have! It never occurred to me before. I left it to Chat! Do you think I could learn it now?"
"I've the very greatest doubts about it," answered Jenny, deceitfully grave. "Go away, and write more books." She shook her head at me reproachfully. "To think you never told me what I was doing!"
"I suppose you're aware that you pay me four hundred pounds a year?"
"So did my father. I suppose he knew what the proper salary was."
"But you don't know perhaps how much I've made out of these marvelous books in the last four years? It amounts to the sum of twenty-seven pounds, four shillings, and twopence. Your new secretary will tell you in a minute how much that works out at per annum."
"Goodness!" murmured Jenny. "Oh, but, of course, I should——"
"Of course you'd do nothing of the kind! Time has consecrated my claim to be overpaid for inefficient services—but I won't be pensioned off into a villa with Chat! Here I stay—or out I go—to a garret and starvation!"
"And fame!"
"Oh, humbug! As for my work, you know I've more time here than I want."