“Just let them know what you think about them, for a change,” Jacob enjoined. “Three pounds a week, indeed! Tell them you’ve accepted a post at five hundred a year with a financier who needs your advice with his investments. That’ll give them something to think about!”
“It will!” Dauncey admitted, with a smile. “They’ll think I’ve gone mad.”
“Let ’em think what they choose,” Jacob insisted. “You come out of it with your nose in the air and leave your office coat behind for the errand boy. They’ll always be worried to think that you must have been a great deal smarter than they gave you credit for.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dauncey promised.
“I shall call for you in my motor-car,” Jacob continued; “we shall make purchases on our way, and we shall return to Marlingden in state. Thank heavens, Dick, for small ambitions! Just for the moment, I feel that nothing could make me happier than to be driven down the village street, pull up at the shops on the way home, and spend a few five-pound notes where I’ve had to look twice at a shilling.”
Dauncey smiled with the air of a man who sees more wonderful things.
“That’s all very well in its way, old fellow,” he admitted, “but to appreciate this absolutely you ought to be married. I can think of nothing but Nora’s face when I tell her—when I show her the pocketbook—when she begins to realise! Jacob, it’s worth all the misery of the last few years. It’s worth—anything.”
Jacob’s face glowed with sympathy, but he made a brave attempt to whistle under his breath a popular tune.
“Fact of it is, old chap,” he said, as he gripped the bottle for support and watched the bubbles rise in Dauncey’s glass, “we are both altogether too emotional.”