"What is your income?" he inquired coldly.
His aim was more accurate. The artist descended to earth with a thud.
"My income?" he gasped.
"Your income," repeated the bombardier.
The artist ran his fingers convulsively through his hair.
"Now, what the deuce should I put it at?"
"An approximately correct figure," suggested Mr. Walkingshaw.
"To tell you the truth, I haven't the least idea."
"A thousand?"
"Oh, good God, no!"