“Well, architect then. Your job as draughtsman at Hollis & Sprague’s must pay you all of twenty-five a week.”
“Thirty-five,” said Dirk, grimly. “What’s that got to do with it!”
“Not a thing, darling.” She stuck out one foot. “These slippers cost thirty.”
“I won’t be getting thirty-five a week all my life. You’ve got brains enough to know that. Eugene wouldn’t be getting that much if he weren’t the son of his father.”
“The grandson of his grandfather,” Paula corrected him. “And I’m not so sure he wouldn’t. Gene’s a born mechanic if they’d just let him work at it. He’s crazy about engines and all that junk. But no—‘Millionaire Packer’s Son Learns Business from Bottom Rung of Ladder.’ Picture of Gene in workman’s overalls and cap in the Sunday papers. He drives to the office on Michigan at ten and leaves at four and he doesn’t know a steer from a cow when he sees it.”
“I don’t care a damn about Gene. I’m talking about you. You were joking, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t. I’d hate being poor, or even just moderately rich. I’m used to money—loads of it. I’m twenty-four. And I’m looking around.”
He kicked an innocent beet-top with his boot. “You like me better than any man you know.”
“Of course I do. Just my luck.”
“Well, then!”