“I ought to work, because it all counts in the valuation. But I don’t care.”
He lay looking at me for some time. Then he said:
“I don’t suppose I shall have above twenty pounds left when we’ve sold up—but she’s got plenty of money to start with—if she has me—in Canada. I could get well off—and she could have—what she wanted—I’m sure she’d have what she wanted.”
He took it all calmly as if it were realised. I was somewhat amused.
“What frock will she have on when she comes to meet me?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The same as she’s gone to Nottingham in, I suppose—a sort of gold-brown costume with a rather tight fitting coat. Why?”
“I was thinking how she’d look.”
“What chickens are you counting now?” I asked.
“But what do you think I look best in?” he replied.
“You? Just as you are—no, put that old smooth cloth coat on—that’s all.” I smiled as I told him, but he was very serious.