Cheviot sighed.
“I expected nothing,” he said. “That is the art of life. Then you don’t feel such a mug when you find a wiggle-woggle in your grease.”
Mrs. Cheviot shuddered.
“Need you be disgusting?” she said.
“I need,” said Titus violently. “Dudgeon will out. For the last nine months I’ve fought like a super-fiend to keep our home together, and here you are doin’ your level best to break it up. I love you. I want you to blaze. I want you to put it across all other Eves. But you have—you do—you can’t help it. The clothes you wear don’t count. If you wore a set of loose covers, you’d get there just the same. But will you see it? No. Somehow you’ve made up your mind you’ve got to splurge.” He jumped to his feet and started to pace the room. “Well, if you must, you shall—on eight hundred a year. I can’t spring another cent. You talk about living cheaper—cutting out the flat and the car. But what’s the use of sables if you live an’ move in Clapham an’ have to come up by tram? Don’t think I care—I don’t. But how will it help you on? To get your effect you must soak in a bit all round. If you want the fun of the fair, you must split up your pence. If you blue them all on the swings, you can’t go on the roundabouts.”
“Who said ‘live in Clapham’?” said Blanche.
“I did,” said Titus. “I also said ‘come up by tram,’ an’ I meant what I said. Your words were ‘live much more cheaply.’ Did you mean what you said?”
“I didn’t say ‘pig it,’ ” said Mrs. Cheviot.
“They don’t pig it in Clapham,” said Titus. “They live much better than us. But they live much more cheaply too—for obvious reasons. They don’t feed five servants for one thing—they’ve too much sense.”
“We must keep our end up,” said Blanche. “The Willoughbys have started a second chauffeur. At least, they’re trying to find one.”