"Not such a very poor way," he said. "There is no secret about it. I had five thousand pounds that had been settled on my mother, and fortunately that was not affected by the smash, so I have two hundred a year, which is amply sufficient for my wants."
"It is enough, of course, to live upon in a way, Cuthbert, but so different from what you were accustomed to."
"I don't suppose you spend two hundred a year," he said, with a smile.
"Oh, no, but a woman is so different. That is just what I have, and of course I don't spend anything like all of it; but as I said, it is so different with you, who have been accustomed to spend ever so much more."
"I don't find myself in any way pinched. I can assure you my lodgings in the Quartier Latin are not what you would call sumptuous, but they are comfortable enough, and they do not stand me in a quarter of what I paid for my chambers in London. I can dine sumptuously on a franc and a half. Another franc covers my breakfast, which is generally café au lait and two eggs; another franc suffices for supper. So you see that my necessaries of life, including lodgings and fuel, do not come to anything like half my income, and I can spend the rest in riotous living if I choose."
The girl looked at him earnestly.
"You are not growing cynical, I hope, Cuthbert?"
"I hope not. I am certainly not conscious of it. I don't look cynical, do I?"
"No," she said, doubtfully. "I do not see any change in you, but what do you do with yourself?"
"I paint," he said.