Janet. Yes, and what about your clothes and my clothes, and the rates and taxes, and bus-fares, and holidays, and your cigarettes, and doctor, and errand boys' Christmas-boxes, and gas, and coal, and repairs? Repairs! A hundred and eighty is more like what we want.
Carve. And yet you have several times taken your Bible oath that my half-share of it all came to less than forty pounds.
Janet. Well—er—I was thinking of food. (She begins to collect the breakfast things.)
Carve. Jane, you have been a deceitful thing. But never mind. I will draw a veil over this sinful past. Let us assume that beer goes all to pieces, and that you never get another cent out of Cohoon's. Well, as you need a hundred and eighty a year, I will give you a hundred and eighty a year.
Janet. And where shall you get the extra hundred?
Carve. I shall earn it.
Janet. No, you don't. I won't have you taking any more situations.
Carve. I shall earn it here.
Janet. How?
Carve. Painting!