“But, dearie, business is business,” he argued, “and we need the money!”
“Yes, I know; doubtless you’re right. Only please don’t say ‘business is business;’ it isn’t like you, and—”
“But think what it will mean—ten thousand a year!”
“Oh, Neil, I’ve lived on ten thousand a year before, and I never had half the fun that I had when we were getting along on twelve hundred.”
“Yes, but then we were always dreaming of the day when I’d make a lot; we lived on that hope, didn’t we?”
Edith laughed. “You used to say we lived on love.”
“You’re not serious.” He turned to gaze moodily out of the window. And then she left the azalea, and perched on the flat arm of his chair.
“Dearest,” she said, “I am serious. I know all this means to you. We’re human, and we don’t like to ‘chip at crusts like Hindus,’ even for the sake of youth and art. I never had illusions about love in a cottage and all that. Only, dear, I have been happy, so very happy, with you, because—well, because I was living in an atmosphere of honest purpose, honest ambition, and honest desire to do some good thing in the world. I had never known such an atmosphere before. At home, you know, father and Uncle James and the boys—well, it was all money, money, money with them, and they couldn’t understand why I—”
“Could marry a poor newspaper artist! That’s just the point.”
She put her hand to his lips.