"But I do not mean to make accusations, Ferdinand. I should only add to our miseries by that. We should be happier apart."
"Not I. Nor is that my idea of marriage. Tell your father that you wish to go with me, and then he will let us have the money."
"I will tell him no lie, Ferdinand. If you bid me go, I will go. Where you find a home I must find one too if it be your pleasure to take me. But I will not ask my father to give you money because it is my pleasure to go. Were I to say so he would not believe me."
"It is you who have told him to give it me only on the condition of your staying."
"I have told him nothing. He knows that I do not wish to go. He cannot but know that. But he knows that I mean to go if you require it."
"And you will do nothing for me?"
"Nothing,—in regard to my father." He raised his fist with the thought of striking her, and she saw the motion. But his arm fell again to his side. He had not quite come to that yet. "Surely you will have the charity to tell me whether I am to go, if it be fixed," she said.
"Have I not told you so twenty times?"
"Then it is fixed."
"Yes;—it is fixed. Your father will tell you about your things. He has promised you some beggarly sum,—about as much as a tallow-chandler would give his daughter."