His wife was standing before him, with blazing eyes.
“I shan’t strike you,” she said, “because that’d be coming down to your level. Besides, you’d probably strike me back. But the impulse is there. . . . I knew you were selfish, of course. And a waster. And other things. But I never knew you were trash. . . . Only trash would discuss the whimper of a maudlin girl.”
Pauncefote regarded her steadily.
The lash had recovered his nerve.
“No doubt,” he said dryly, “no doubt. Let’s leave it there, shall we?” The light of attack in Jean’s eyes slid into a stare. “What I was trying to do was to temper the wind. . . . We’re broke, my good lady. Bust. We haven’t a bean. Our hundred thousand’s gone.” Jean started back, and a hand went up to her mouth. “Plaisir and Co. have failed.”
“Oliver!”
“It’s been done before,” said her husband carelessly. He stepped to one side and past her and flung himself into a chair. “But the point I wish to make is that this is where we get off. I’ve about twelve hundred in England, but that won’t pay our debts. We shall get a bit on your pearls and the Rolls and other things, but you’re always stung to glory when you’ve got to realize quick.” He paused to inhale comfortably. “Can you get packed in time for the two o’clock train? It’s no good staying here.”
Jean pulled herself together.
“But, Oliver, what shall we do?”
“I’ve no idea. I must try to get work, of course. If you had money, or I had any to give you, we could each go our own way. As it is, I’m afraid your only immediate hope is to stick to me. What work I can get I don’t know. A soldier’s not much good outside his own job. . . . By the way, I’m extremely sorry I’ve let you down. I should never have put the lot into one concern. I’m afraid you’ll find it pretty thick.”