Shirley and David went to the station as they had gone from it, alone in Aunt Clara's car. All the way he was trying to tell her of the new resolve he had taken when Jonathan and Esther Summers made music for him. It was strangely hard to tell. Not until they were in the station, with but a few minutes left, did he find words for the essay.
"Shirley, I'm afraid you thought I was pretty babyish—about giving up my profession. I—I was babyish. I'd like you to know I've got my nerve back."
Shirley was very sweet about it. "I did think you were a little foolish to take it so hard, dear, when the old architecture never brought us anything but disappointments. I always knew you would come to look at it sensibly."
And she dismissed the subject with the carelessness it may have deserved.
"When do you think Mr. Radbourne will raise your salary?"
"Probably before I have earned it."
"David, do you think we'll ever be rich?"
"I suppose not. There seems little chance of it."
She sighed.
"There is nothing in the world but money, is there?"
Tears of self-pity were coming into her eyes. "It's terrible, having to look forward to being poor forever."