“As it is,” said his companion, “though my feet are of clay—‘earthy,’ I think, was your expression—the man who marries me must think them of fine gold.”
Fairfax looked down his nose.
“There are plenty of coves,” he said, “who’ll tell you the tale. Besides, when I said you were earthy, I only meant ‘human.’ Hang it, Athalia, if I told you your little feet were golden, you’ld tell me to go straight home and sleep it off.”
“Also,” continued Miss Choate, “he must prefer my smile to any comfort that he has ever dreamed of.”
“But I do,” protested her swain. “Infinitely. They’re not in the same street.”
“Rot,” said Athalia. “You love your comfort best every time. My smile doesn’t come off with my pearls. If I was poor, my smile’ld still be there. But you wouldn’t want it then.”
“Of course I should. And if I was rich, I’ld have it. It’s not your money I want, but it is your money we need. I’ve been honest about it. ‘Live and let live,’ you know.”
“Have you anything,” said Athalia, “but what you earn?”
“Not a bean,” was the cheerful reply. “I had sixty thousand, you know. But I’ve been through the lot.”
“Good,” said my lady. “Look here. Jobs tend to cramp the style——”