You see, now, what was in the man’s mind.
That morning had brought him a cheque for seven pounds and a request to be shown the next tale that he wrote. Simon reckoned that he could write three tales a month.
So much for Earned Income.
Simon had just been left three hundred pounds. The money lay at the Bank. If he put it all on Grey Ruby at thirty-three to one and Patricia’s dream came true, Simon would win nine thousand nine hundred pounds.
So much for Grey Ruby.
As for the total, the man shall speak for himself.
“A thousand a year. It isn’t too much, but supposing we lived abroad. Say, Paris. I think she could stick it all right. I think she’d be happy. I believe, in a way, she’d find it rather fun. Of course she’d miss all the show—flunkeys and cars and the rest. We might run to a Citroën. And she could have half a maid. Clothes’d be the snag. We couldn’t put up a fight where clothes were concerned. But if she could rule them out—I don’t think she really cares about anything else. The idea of Life without luxury’s never entered her head. It doesn’t follow that if it did she’d fire it out. I don’t think she would. I don’t think Patricia’s that sort. If it weren’t for the clothes question . . .”
Simon rose to his feet and fell to pacing the room.
“One thing’s clear—a thousand’s the rock-bottom figure. I must make up my mind to that. Under a thousand a year it can’t be done. It could be, of course. We shouldn’t starve on five hundred. But . . . No, a thousand’s the lowest possible. With a thousand I could temper the wind. Unless Grey Ruby comes up and unless I can get thirty-threes . . .
“What’s the alternative? The alternative’s plain hell—for me, any way. I suppose I can plough through, but face it I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t—can’t pretend to . . . if she was in love with Persimmon, if she was going to be happy—happier than with me—well, I could stomach that. As it is . . . I don’t know why I didn’t see it that night at Breathless. I came pretty near, too. I said we’d defied Nature. But for some fool’s reason I assumed the adhesions could be torn. That that was further defiance I never saw. I suppose I was exalted, drunk with a sort of heroism. That’s all right to die on, because you’re dead before it wears off. You can take a life-sentence with a laugh: but you don’t laugh much when you’re in prison, and after the first month. . . .