He took the slender wrist, blew out the match, and held her, facing him.
"Sylvia," he said. "I ought to have gone into the money question with you before. But all I have is yours. You know that, don't you?"
She laughed at him through the smoke. "I know where you keep it anyhow, partner," she said. "But I shan't take any—so you needn't be afraid."
"Afraid!" he said, still holding her. "But you are to take it.
Understand? It's my wish."
She blew the smoke at him, delicately, through pursed lips. "Good my lord, I don't want it. Couldn't spend it if I had it. So now!"
"Then what is it I am to buy?" he said.
Lightly she answered him. "Oh, you will only do the paying part.
I shall do the choosing—and the bargaining, if necessary."
"Well, what is it?" Still he held her, and there was something of insistence, something of possession, in his hold.
Possibly she had never before seemed more desirable to him—or more elusive. For she was beginning to realize and to wield her power. Again she took a whiff from her cigarette, and wafted it at him through laughing lips.
"I want some wool—good wool—and a lot of it, to knit some socks—for you. Your present things are disgraceful."