It is a rash wife who recalls to her husband the days of single life.
"Very likely," he answered impatiently; "but we weren't married then. I can't afford it now."
The rash wife had it, full between the eyes; a brutal blow provoked by her incaution; and she reeled.
"Can't afford it, Hugh?" she repeated, with a vague sense of being accused. "Why, do I cost so much? Do I cost more than Ruth?"
He had not looked for anything quite as direct as that. He had blurted it out and now, as often, felt ashamed. He laughed and said in a much kinder tone:
"Don't you worry your dear head about things like that. We shall be all right. You won't find the man in possession by our fireside yet, when you come home from market!"
Now it was her turn not to be amused. "No, but tell me," she said. "I'd much rather know. Are we honestly hard up?"
"What a practical little thing it's getting," he said, patting her on the back as they strode onward, always heralded by the long white dog with its straight tail, as proud as a drum-major. "Well, if you really want to know," he went on, "we are and have been, but we shan't be. Listen!" He turned about and about, his finger to his mouth, upon the empty spaces, clearly once more in the best of spirits. "Never tell a soul—and least of all the High-Art Alison—but I am doing a pot-boiler!"
"What, something worse than you need?" she blurted out in her astonishment.
He laughed at that. "Yes, if you put it so! Anyhow, something to make money."