"And very pleasant they are, my dear man."
"It is people such as you and your husband who make the poor discontented," insisted the curate.
"I'm sure I don't see why the poor should be," murmured Lady Jim, vaguely; "there are lots of shelters and soup-kitchens and workhouses. And I always put ten shillings into the plate on Hospital Sunday, not to speak of the way in which I've danced and sung at performances--got up to help people who don't need the money so much as I do."
"Nero fiddling, while Rome burned."
"Well, and what else could the poor man have done?" retorted Leah. "There were no fire-brigades in those days, were there?"
Lionel felt helpless. "You don't understand!"
"Oh yes, I do. You mean to be nasty. If I were a vindictive woman I would drop you into the river, car and all"--they were crossing Westminster Bridge by this time--"but I always like to be nice. Being nasty brings wrinkles, and makes one so old. But about our trouble," she went on, determined to have her own way. "Lady Canvey won't help us, and no one else either. There's the Duke----"
"He has done enough for you."
"Not at all," Lady Jim assured him coolly. "He's kept us on bread and water--that's all."
"Oh!" Lionel was shocked at this ungrateful speech. "And you prefer pâté de foie gras and champagne?"