“And what must I feel?” Rosina snapped.
“Then why can’t we all live together, Rosina?” he said, more boldly.
“Are you beginning that again?” she asked, sharply. “You won’t come and live here, will you?”
“You know it is impossible.”
“And you know it is impossible for me to move to your neighborhood. I’ve told you a thousand times you can’t afford one of those big houses—it would be ruinous; you’d have to keep a staff of servants to match, and things would be coming to the house at extravagant prices from aristocratic tradespeople, whereas here I go out and do my bit of marketing, and pick up a bargain here and a bargain there; I’ve found out a place in Holloway where I get the best meat a penny a pound cheaper than anywhere in Camden Town, and it only means a penny tram there and back. You don’t know how much I save you a year when you suspect me of making a stocking for myself out of my sea-side allowance. And even if you can afford such a house, rather give me the money and let me put it by for the children.”
He made a despairing gesture. “We could get a small house,” he said. “I could work harder for a year or two. Perhaps I could get a few more rooms added to my studio. There’s a piece of ground I use at the back for open-air studies.”
“And what would be the use of my living with you?” inquired Rosina, brutally. “You don’t want me any more. I dare say you could come home at night now if you wanted to.”
“Hush!” said her husband, flushing. “Clara, my dear, take Davie out and buy him some candy. This penny is really his.”
“Yes, father.” And the joyous children disappeared.
“Poor orphans!” said Rosina. “Perhaps it’s just as well there won’t be any more of them.”