“I hope not the latter, Loo; I hope sincerely not, dearest. It would be a cruel sacrifice, and really for nothing.”
“A partnership in an old-established house,” said she, with a mocking laugh, “is always something; but I won't prejudge events, nor throw my cards on the table till I have lost the game. And à propos to losing the game, suppose that luck should turn against us,—suppose that we fail to supply some essential link in this chain of fortune,—suppose that Trover should change his mind and sell us,—suppose, in short, anything adverse you please,—what means are remaining to you, papa? Have you enough to support us in some cheap unfrequented spot at home or abroad?”
“I could get together about two hundred and forty pounds a year, not more.”
“One could live upon that, could n't one?” asked she.
“Yes, in a fashion. With a number of privations you have never experienced, self-denial in fifty things you have never known to be luxuries, with a small house and small habits and small acquaintances, one could rub through, but no more.”
“Oh, how I should like to try it!” cried she, clasping her hands together. “Oh, what would I not give to pass one year—one entire year of life—without the ever-present terror of exposure, shame, and scorn,—to feel that when I lie down to rest at night a knock at the street door should not throw me into the cold perspiration of ague, or the coming of the postman set my heart a-throbbing, as though the missive were a sentence on me! Why cannot I have peace like this?”
“Poverty has no peace, my dear Loo. It is the poorest of all wars, for it is the pettiest of all objects. It would break my heart to see you engaged in such a conflict.”
And the Captain suffered his eyes to range over the handsome room and its fine furniture, while his thoughts wandered to a French cook, and that delicious “Château Margaux” he had tasted yesterday.
Did she read what was passing in his mind, as, with a touch of scorn in her manner, she said, “Doubtless you know the world better,” and left the room?