“My dear,” said her husband, “it happens to be the truth. Three thousand a year’s no earthly use to you.”
“It would be if I had my share.”
Titus took out a note-book and put a glass in his eye.
“This is May,” he announced. “The twelfth of May. I don’t know exactly how much you consider your share, but since the beginning of the year you’ve had seven hundred and ninety for clothes alone.”
“You would write it down,” said Blanche contemptuously.
“If you mean that it’s like me,” said Cheviot, “that isn’t true. But we’ve had these discussions before, and the absence of any figures has materially helped your case. In the first place, I’ve always put it too low—to be on the safe side. In the second, you’ve always sworn that I put it too high.”
“I suppose you want me to be dressed.”
Titus took down his eyeglass and put his note-book away.
“You were clothed,” he said, “as a spinster. I remember it perfectly. But two hundred a year was all you had to do it on.”
“Are you suggesting——”