The broker gave a low and expressive whistle. Sarcastically he inquired: "What are you going to live on—extra editions?"
"No, we're young, there's plenty of time," she answered calmly. "I can work in the meantime and so can he. With his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible."
Brockton chuckled to himself.
"Sounds well—a year off."
Irritated at his facetious tone and bantering manner, the girl plainly showed her resentment. Her face flushed, and, throwing down the magazine, she went towards the door of the house. Petulantly she cried:
"If I had thought you were going to make fun of me, Will, I wouldn't have talked to you at all."
Quickly he made a step forward and intercepted her.
"I don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't exactly pleasant to be dumped with so little ceremony. Maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even I can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market."
She stopped and looked at him kindly. Her voice was softened as she said:
"It isn't easy for me to do this, Will. You've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when I went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. You reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. Now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little—maybe a lot—but I should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts."