“We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we made?”
“Ninety-six thousand—to date.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?”
“The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.”
Blanche clung to his knees.
“Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again, you’ll turn this down.”
Cheviot appeared to hesitate.
Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table.
“How much did you spend in Paris?”
Mrs. Cheviot started.