"You've taught me a lot," said she.
"I wonder," replied he. "That is, I wonder how much you've learned. Perhaps enough to keep you—not to keep from being knocked down by fate, but to get on your feet afterward. I hope so—I hope so."
They dropped coffee, bought milk by the bottle, he smuggling it to their rooms disguised as a roll of newspapers. They carried in rolls also, and cut down their restaurant meals to supper which they got for twenty-five cents apiece at a bakery restaurant in Seventh Street. There is a way of resorting to these little economies—a snobbish, self-despairing way—that makes them sordid and makes the person indulging in them sink lower and lower. But Burlingham could not have taken that way. He was the adventurer born, was a hardy seasoned campaigner who had never looked on life in the snob's way, had never felt the impulse to apologize for his defeats or to grow haughty over his successes. Susan was an apt pupil; and for the career that lay before her his instructions were invaluable. He was teaching her how to keep the craft afloat and shipshape through the worst weather that can sweep the sea of life.
"How do you make yourself look always neat and clean?" he asked.
She confessed: "I wash out my things at night and hang them on the inside of the shutters to dry. They're ready to wear again in the morning."
"Getting on!" cried he, full of admiration. "They simply can't down us, and they might as well give up trying."
"But I don't look neat," sighed she. "I can't iron."
"No—that's the devil of it," laughed he. He pulled aside his waistcoat and she saw he was wearing a dickey. "And my cuffs are pinned in," he said. "I have to be careful about raising and lowering my arms."
"Can't I wash out some things for you?" she said, then hurried on to put it more strongly. "Yes, give them to me when we get back to the hotel."
"It does help a man to feel he's clean underneath. And we've got nothing to waste on laundries."