"Hold on a minute, can't you? Let me make my little speech. I've made it so many times in my mind."
"All right, you poor dear, just start right in."
"Well," said Joe, "it begins like this." And his face grew a little portentous, with humour and a deeper feeling mingled awkwardly together. "You've been about as good to me as one fellow could be to another. I know what a hell it must have been, and the stiff upper lip was all on your side. I don't want to talk about it, but—when Amy died the life went out—of my business too. Later I got back my nerve, and because my job was all I had left I tried to make it more worth while. I've got a few old dreams in me—I mean I've always wanted to build something better than flats in the Bronx. So I—well, I took a chance and failed. I'm in debt and my only chance to scrape through is to cut down here as low as we can. I've figured out our expenses, and—"
He walked for a moment. She quickly rose, went to him and took his arm and said:
"A very fine speech. We'll go in to our dinner now—and later we'll get a pencil and paper, and we won't stop until everything's right."
There came for Ethel busy days.
The next morning she went to the nursery and told the nurse she would have to go. "I'm sorry," she added and then stopped short, startled by the woman's face. The way her eyes went to Susette made something leap in Ethel's breast. The nurse wheeled sharply:
"What have I done! What's the matter with me?" Her voice was strained.
"Nothing. There has been nothing at all." Ethel found it hard to speak.
"You've been—quite wonderful with Susette. The trouble is that Mr.
Lanier has found he must cut expenses."
"Oh. Then why am I the one?" She broke off and grew rigid, but her thought struck into Ethel's mind: "Why am I the one? Why don't you go! What good are you here?"