“I only know that Dad gives me an allowance of ten thousand a year, and there’s never anything left,” she answered.
“Ten thousand a year!” he exclaimed.
“Everything is so expensive to-day, Don. All this talk sounds frightfully vulgar, but––there’s no use pretending, is there?”
“Not a bit,” he answered. “If ten thousand a year is what you need, ten thousand a year is what I must earn.”
“I don’t believe it’s very hard, because Dad does it so easily,” she declared.
“I’ll get it,” he nodded confidently. “And, now that it’s all settled, let’s forget it. Come over to the piano and sing for me.”
He sat down before the keys and played her accompaniments, selecting his own songs. They ran through some of the latest opera successes, and then swung off to the simpler and older things. It was after “Annie Laurie” that he rose and looked deep into her eyes.
“I’ll get it for you,” he said soberly.
“Oh, Don!” she whispered. “Sometimes nothing seems important but just you.”