“What do you want for a husband—a bourgeois who would die if he missed his lunch?”
Gyp turned round to him and held out her cheque-book.
“I don't in the least mind about meals; but I do about this.” He read on the counterfoil:
“Messrs. Travers & Sanborn, Tailors, Account rendered: L54 35s. 7d.” “Are there many of these, Gustav?”
Fiorsen had turned the peculiar white that marked deep injury to his sell-esteem. He said violently:
“Well, what of that? A bill! Did you pay it? You have no business to pay my bills.”
“The man said if it wasn't paid this time, he'd sue you.” Her lips quivered. “I think owing money is horrible. It's undignified. Are there many others? Please tell me!”
“I shall not tell you. What is it to you?”
“It is a lot to me. I have to keep this house and pay the maids and everything, and I want to know how I stand. I am not going to make debts. That's hateful.”
Her face had a hardness that he did not know. He perceived dimly that she was different from the Gyp of this hour yesterday—the last time when, in possession of his senses, he had seen or spoken to her. The novelty of her revolt stirred him in strange ways, wounded his self-conceit, inspired a curious fear, and yet excited his senses. He came up to her, said softly: