"I tell you," he said, "that it’s all gone. Now, for God’s sake, my dear soul, go away! Can’t you see I’m trying to write?"
"But my income——”
"Oh, you and your damned income!" he shouted. "You women and your beastly greed! Haven’t you any soul? Can’t you think of anything but money?"
"No, I can’t, Vincent, just now. It’s a very serious matter," said Polly, gravely.
He jumped up with an oath.
"It’s disposed of for the next two years," he cried. "You left it to my judgment. I’ve used my judgment. And now you come whining and sniveling about your handful of pennies. By God, I’m entitled to it! The whole thing doesn’t amount to what you cost me in a month—your clothes and your——”
"Never mind that, please. Do you mean that we can’t pay Angelica?"
"Good God! Is your head made of wood? Or are you getting senile?"
Polly went on, as unheeding of his gross rudeness as a rock is of the spray that dashes over it. Quiet and resolute, she pursued her investigations. Her money was her life, her peace, her freedom, her dignity; she knew that she could not earn any more, and that there was no other man to give it to her. She must have it!
Angelica observed her with profound admiration. Even to further her own best interests, even, she fancied, to save her own life, she couldn’t have remained so calm, so self-controlled.