“Why, it is nothing,” he said, “it is only francs, and francs aren’t real money, anyway.”
She turned and walked away and he followed. The Englishman, twisting round in his chair, said something. Timothy thought he was asking whether he should look after his money and answered “Certainly.”
The girl walked to one of the padded benches by the wall and sat down. There was such real trouble in her face that Timothy’s heart sank.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said, “but this is my last fling and you told me I could have it. After to-night I cut out everything that doesn’t qualify for the ‘earned income’ column of the tax-surveyor.”
“You frighten me,” she said. “It isn’t the amount of money you were venturing, but there was something in your face which made me feel—why! I just felt sick,” she said.
“Mary!” he said in surprise.
“I know I’m being unreasonable,” she interrupted, “but Timothy, I—I just don’t want to think of you like this.”
She looked into his dejected face and the softest light that ever shone in woman’s eyes was in hers.
“Poor Timothy!” she said, half in jest, “you’re paying the penalty for having a girl friend.”
“I’m paying the penalty for being a loafer,” he said huskily. “I think there must be some bad blood in us. Mary, I know what I’m losing,” he said, and took one of her hands. “I’m losing the right to love you, dearest.”