"I hope you're not very set on being a rich woman, Meg," said Graeme, when they were alone together.
"Oh, but I am," she said, with a smile which all the riches in the world could not have bought from her, or brought to her.
"Yes, I know,"—and he gathered the smile with a kiss. "But in coarse material wealth, I mean."
"I'm just as set on it as you are. I want just as much as will make you happy. You mean Mr. Pixley has made away with it all?"
"I'm very much afraid so, but I guess we can get along all right without it."
"Of course we can—splendidly. I'm a famous housekeeper and you'll be a famous author. There couldn't be a better team. It will bring out the very best that's in us."
"We can never come to actual want anyway, for my little bit—which, by the way, Lady Elspeth once took the trouble to impress upon me was just about enough to pay Mr. Pixley's servants' wages—is in Consols, and they're not likely to crack up. And my last book brought me about fifty pounds—"
"It ought to have brought you five thousand. I'm sure it was good enough."
"Of course it was, but it takes time to work up to the five thousand point. Some get there, I suppose. But I should imagine more starve off at the fifty line."
"We could live like princes on a couple of hundred a year in Sark here."