It was a satisfaction to learn that he earned only fifty dollars a week. She had thought him a millionaire at first. He threw money about with a prodigality that distressed her. His theatre tickets, his gifts, his unceasing attentions cost money,—a great deal of money. She knew his salary did not warrant it. She was glad he got but fifty a week,—only fifteen more than she did, herself. Roy was getting forty. Martin seemed more human to her after she knew the size of his salary; he was more comprehensible.
And here, once more, was confronting her the matter of finances were she to marry. She and her mother together enjoyed an income that was never less than two hundred dollars a month. She contributed eighty, as her share towards rent and food, and had still sixty dollars a month left to spend as she chose, for clothes, for a gift to Alice, or for delightful adventures with her mother, lunches and theatres on Saturday afternoons, and the little surprises that were so delightful. Would she have anything like as much out of the two hundred dollars Martin earned if she married him? What part of his weekly pay envelope was he likely to give her to run their house, and to spend on herself?
It was only fair, since he pressed his suit so vigorously, that this all-important matter should be brought up and discussed. She did not consider herself mercenary. The question of the wife’s allowance in marriage seemed a vital one to her. She had tasted independence, and did not consider she should be expected to relinquish it in marriage. Alice and Roy got along in amiable fashion on this point. Roy kept five dollars a week for himself and gave his wife the rest of his pay envelope. Sometimes toward the end of the week he would ask her for fifty cents or a dollar to tide him over until Saturday. That arrangement seemed to Jeannette eminently fair. Roy gave all he could be reasonably expected to, she thought; five dollars a week was about as little as he could get along on for carfare, lunches and tobacco. Of course, his clothing and the pleasures he and his wife shared, came out of what Alice was able to save from week to week,—and she did manage to save a little. But, as Jeannette had often remarked, Alice was different from her. She, Jeannette, had won for herself an economic value to be measured in dollars and cents, and it was not fair to expect her to forego this for a hazy, uncertain condition in which her wishes and wants were only to be gratified at her husband’s whim. It was better to have a frank discussion and settle the matter.
Martin shouted a delighted laugh when she expounded this thought.
“Why, my darling,” he said, “don’t bother your head about it. You can have every cent I make and if that isn’t enough, I’ll go out and steal for you.”
“But seriously, Martin, what do you think a wife should have out of her husband’s income? Now, I’m not saying I’ll marry you——”
“You darling!”
“No—no,—be sensible, Martin. I want to thresh this out. If I should consent to marry you, what would you think would be a fair proportion of what you earn that I could count on as my own?”
“What would you be wanting money for?” Martin asked, amused by her earnestness.
“What would I be wanting money for?” she repeated. “Why, what do you think? ... For clothes, for pleasures, to throw away if I liked!”