"He can write poetry—at least he tells me he can." Mr. Dagonet hesitated, as if aware of the inadequacy of the alternative, and then added: "And he can count on three thousand a year from me."
Mr. Spragg tilted himself farther back without disturbing his subtly-calculated relation to the scrap basket.
"Does it cost anything like that to print his poetry?"
Mr. Dagonet smiled again: he was clearly enjoying his visit. "Dear, no—he doesn't go in for 'luxe' editions. And now and then he gets ten dollars from a magazine."
Mr. Spragg mused. "Wasn't he ever TAUGHT to work?"
"No; I really couldn't have afforded that."
"I see. Then they've got to live on two hundred and fifty dollars a month."
Mr. Dagonet remained pleasantly unmoved. "Does it cost anything like that to buy your daughter's dresses?"
A subterranean chuckle agitated the lower folds of Mr. Spragg's waistcoat.
"I might put him in the way of something—I guess he's smart enough."