“I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.”
“Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact, you got away with over five thousand pounds.”
“Titus!”
Cheviot nodded.
“And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking. I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad. But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.”
Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair.
“I’m at your mercy,” she said.
Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room.
In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three thousand pounds a year.
“That’s all,” said Titus.