A smart coupé from the Coupé Company, called every afternoon, and took us out shopping and into the park; Emma’s ideas were apparently as magnificent as of yore. I was fitted out by “Ninette,” her own milliner, in a black crépon and silk, and a large French picture-hat, with black ostrich feathers—expense absolutely no object. It was not for me, a girl of eighteen, to make inquiries respecting our finances. I took for granted that the phrase “left badly off” meant at least a thousand a year. Emma had imparted to me that her auction had brought in a large sum, and that she expected the old Jam-Jam—meaning the Rajah of Jam-Jam-More—“to do something handsome for both of us.”
Meanwhile we remained in Sloane Street, were extravagant in flowers, books, and coupés, and hospitable Emma haled in every passing acquaintance to lunch, tea, or dinner. She had no plans, beyond a desire to remain in London and “look about her;” which looking about her signified the constant expectation of coming across the familiar faces of Eastern friends. Miserable mofussilite! poor deluded Emma! She had a foolish idea that the metropolis resembled a great Indian station, and that she could scarcely cross the road without meeting some one she knew.
Her special friends were not in England. At the moment they had either just gone back, or were not coming home till next year. I noticed—not once, but repeatedly—that when we encountered her mere acquaintances, and they asked where we were living, an expression of significant astonishment was visible in their faces the moment our address was mentioned. I also noted an increased cordiality of manner, and an alacrity in assuring Emma that they would be delighted to come and see her. I do not say this of all, but of some.
And then one morning the crash came. I met our landlady on the stairs, looking excessively fierce and red in the face, and I subsequently discovered Emma encompassed with letters, bills, and books, and dissolved in floods of tears.
“She has just given me notice!” she cried, alluding to our landlady; “and indeed, Gwen, after I pay her for the week, how much money do you think I have left?” She burst into a wild, hysterical laugh, and pushed across the table towards me a silver sixpence and two coppers.
“What—what is this?” I stammered.
“It’s eightpence. Can’t you see? And it’s all we have in the world!”
I remember that I turned it over mechanically, and giggled. I knew nothing of money matters. I had never had the spending of a sovereign in my life.
I was aware that Emma was extravagant, that she never could resist what she called “a bargain,” never could keep money in her pocket. It was quite one of her favorite jokes to exclaim, “Bang goes another five-pound note!”
I had participated in this jest with smiling equanimity, and the supreme confidence of youth: I believed that my stepmother, and only relative, had an ample supply of money somewhere. But—eightpence!