“Um,” muttered Tito into the stump of her cigarette.
“Um?” repeated her pupil. “Do you mean Mum?”
“No. I’m considering,” she answered, with half-shut eyes. “I’ll let you know later. Did you do your hair yourself?”
“Yes; av course I did. Why? Is it a holy show?”
“No; ripping! Tell me, has the earl said anything to you about money, or an allowance?”
“Yes. He said four hundred a year. It’s far too much.”
“Too much!” suddenly sitting erect. “Not half enough. You could never do with it—that is, if you are to be dressed. Why, look at me!”—gesticulating. “Do you see this serge gown I’ve on? It cost twenty guineas—not paid for yet. My shoes”—she flourished her pretty feet—“three guineas. As to my evening gowns, that wretch ‘Du Du’ won’t let me have anything under thirty-five pounds, and then it’s sham lace, and looks like a rag in a week! Do you know that my winter coat cost one hundred and twenty pounds? That makes a big hole in four hundred pounds. I’ve the same allowance too, and I’m drowned in debt.”
“You in debt? Why I thought it was only poor people that owed!”
“Well, I’m poor. I’ve nothing of my own but a hundred a year. Oh, I owe bills I simply dare not think of. Such piles—especially in Paris. Mother is even worse; she owes thousands! Of course, then there’s her bridge losings, and her new motor, and Monte Carlo and all that. When she married his lordship she had a thousand a year, and a little girl. She has the little girl still—but the thousand a year has departed.”
“But is not father rich?”