“Only just a . . . well, this is the truth, Joan. It may be the only way to get her money. Now you’re in on this graft, and you know what you are to me. A marriage—a formal marriage—for a year or two, and then a divorce, and we could go away together, man and wife.”
“Is that what he meant?” She jerked her head to the door. “About ‘married so soon’?”
“He wants to marry her himself.”
“Let him,” she said viciously. “Do you think I care about money? Isn’t there any other way of getting it?”
He was silent. There were too many other ways of getting it for him to advance a direct negative.
“Oh, Monty, you’re not going to do that?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” he said.
“But not that?” she insisted, clinging to him by his coat.
“We’ll talk about it to-night. The old man’s got us tickets for the theatre. We’ll have a bit of dinner up West and go on, and it really doesn’t matter if anybody sees us, because they know very well you’re not in Brussels. What is that queer scent you’ve got?”
Joan laughed, forgetting for the moment the serious problem which faced her.