Carve. I don't want more. If he'd left me eight hundred a year instead of eighty, I shouldn't be any happier. That's just what I've learnt since I took lodgings in your delightful wigwam, Jane—money and fame have no connection whatever with happiness.
Janet. Money has, when you haven't got enough.
Carve. But I have. You won't hear of me paying more than half the household expenses, and you say they're never more than thirty shillings a week. Half thirty—fifteen. Look at the balance it leaves me.
Janet. And supposing I had to ask you to pay more?
Carve. (In a serious sympathetic tone, startled.) Anything wrong?
Janet. Well, there's nothing wrong, as it were—yet——
Carve. Jane, I do believe you've been hiding something from me.
[96]Janet. (With difficulty pulls a letter from her pocket.) No—
Carve. I've felt it for several days.
Janet. You just haven't then. Because I only got it this morning. Here, you may as well read it. (Handing him the letter.) It's about the brewery.