“I don’t see much use in that looking nice, when you’ve got the bailiffs in, and no servant and no money,” Edwin said roughly, and added, still more roughly: “What should you do if anyone came inquiring for rooms?” He tried to guess her real mood, but her features would betray nothing.
“I was expecting three old ladies—sisters—next week,” she said. “I’d been hoping I could hold out till they came. They’re horrid women, though they don’t know it; but they’ve stayed a couple of months in this house every winter for I don’t know how many years, and they’re firmly convinced it’s the best house in Brighton. They’re quite enough to keep it going by themselves when they’re here. But I shall have to write and tell them not to come this time.”
“Yes,” said Edwin. “But I keep asking you—what then?”
“And I keep saying I don’t know.”
“You must have some plans?”
“I haven’t.” She put her lips together, and dimpled her chin, and again cynically smiled. At any rate she had not resented his inquisition.
“I suppose you know you’re behaving like a perfect fool?” he suggested angrily. She did not wince.
“And what if I am? What’s that got to do with you?” she asked, as if pleasantly puzzled.
“You’ll starve. You can’t live for ever on two-and-seven.”
“Well?”