"Money."
"Of course. No one in New York worries about anything else."
"But this is serious," protested she. "I've been thinking—about your marriage—and what'll become of Clayton and me?" She halted, red with embarrassment.
Norman lit a cigarette himself. "I ought to have explained," said he. "But I assumed you'd understand."
"Fred, you know Clayton can't make anything. And when you marry—why—what will become of us!"
"I've been taking care of Clayton's money—and of yours. I'll continue to do it. I think you'll find you're not so badly of. You see, my position enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in on the ground floor—and to warn me in good time before the house falls. You'll not miss me, Ursula."
She showed her gratitude in her eyes, in a slight quiver of the lips, in an unsteadiness of tone as she said, "You're the real thing, Freddie."
"You can go right on as you are now. Only—" He was looking at her with meaning directness.
She moved uneasily, refused to meet his gaze. "Well?" she said, with a suggestion of defiance.
"It's all very natural to get tired of Clayton," said her brother. "I knew you would when you married him. But—Sis, I mind my own business. Still—Why make a fool of yourself?"