“Don’t be cynical,” he said; “it’s a sign of the times, and unbecoming.”
“And cynical women are generally old maids,” laughed Evie. “That won’t do for I must have my title. I won’t die an old maid if I have to advertise in a matrimonial journal.”
Chapter Fourteen.
When St. John returned after seeing his cousin safely home it was late in the afternoon, and though the place still remained open business was apparently over for the day. Thompkins and Co. were not over-burdened with customers at any time, and their number since the advent of the new Co. had been steadily on the decrease. Business was slack, the returns were very small, and St. John felt by no means sanguine as to the success of his venture. He had been married a little over four months, and it was only by exercising the greatest care that they managed to pay their way even. Jill was a thrifty housewife—she always had been,—but St. John forgot his straightened circumstances at times, and launched out a little recklessly. He had not been altogether careful that afternoon, and the consciousness of the fact gave him an unpleasant twinge of remorse as he mounted the steep stairs to their little sitting-room.
Jill was alone standing looking out of the window with her back towards the door, nor did she turn round at his entry. She was displeased.
“You have been a long time,” she said.
“I’m afraid I have,” he admitted. “You weren’t lonely I hope?”
“No; I was too busy for that. And afterwards Mr Markham came in. He has just left.”