He laughed.
"Not what you call a swell, Fin," he said. "She is the daughter of an artist, and not a first-rate one at that."
"An artist?" The full lips writhed into an expression of amazement and contempt which he did not see. "An artist, one of those fellows who paint pictures."
"And awfully bad ones," said Yorke, with a rueful laugh.
"And they're poor?"
"They are certainly not rich," he said.
"And you'll be poor, too, you and she, when—when you're married?"
He laughed rather ruefully again.
"I know the sort of thing," she said, with all the scorn of one who has passed from squalid poverty to luxury and wealth. "You'll have to live in a small house with one or two servants, you won't be able to afford a valet or a horse——."