“Well, well,” said Micklethwaite, “every one knows there are detestable women to be found. But you oughtn’t to let this affect your view of women in general. What became of the girl?”
“I made her a small allowance for a year and a half. Then her child died, and the allowance ceased. I know nothing more of her. Probably she has inveigled some one into marriage.”
“Well, Barfoot,” said the other, rolling about in his chair, “my opinion remains the same. You are in debt to some worthy woman to the extent of half your income. Be quick and find her. It will be better for you.”
“And do you suppose,” asked Everard, with a smile of indulgence, “that I could marry on four hundred and fifty a year?”
“Heavens! Why not?”
“Quite impossible. A wife might be acceptable to me; but marriage with poverty—I know myself and the world too well for that.”
“Poverty!” screamed the mathematician. “Four hundred and fifty pounds!”
“Grinding poverty—for married people.”
Micklethwaite burst into indignant eloquence, and Everard sat listening with the restrained smile on his lips.