It was at one such hour in mid-November, when the two were left alone behind the tall oak doors, that Blanche leaned back in her chair and looked at her watch.
“A quarter of nine,” she said, “on a Saturday night. Since ten this morning between us we’ve netted twelve hundred and sixty quid. I lunched off a glass of milk at a quarter to three, and I’ve had nothing since. And now I’m too tired to eat. What about you?”
“You may cut out the milk,” said Titus. “Never mind. The figures sustain me. This week’s been a record. Over six thousand——”
“It’s a dog’s life,” said Blanche. “Why don’t we stop?”
“Stop?”
“Stop. Chuck it. Finish. We’ve made enough.”
“My dear, you’re not serious?”
“I am indeed,” said Blanche, “and a bit over.”
“You can spend to-morrow in bed.”
“I could spend six weeks in bed. I tell you, I’m through. This—this high-brow robbery’s getting beyond a joke. I haven’t been out for months. I don’t even know the name of a musical play. I’ve forgotten how to dance. Why, I haven’t changed for dinner since——”