"I'm sick of economy," she said, coarsely, "sick and tired of poverty. I've never had anything in my life but poverty, decent, genteel poverty. I would rather be a beggar, simply; I'd rather be a poor girl in the street than go through decent, genteel poverty again."
"It wouldn't be so bad as all that."
"Not so bad, perhaps, but still a small house, with one servant, and seeing how far a pound of meat will go and watching every half-penny that the servant spends. No, thank you, it's not good enough."
"Then, Tilly...."
"What then?"
"Then I see no chance ... of moving to the Hague."
"Well," she said in her dull tone of piqued indifference, "then let's stay here."
"But you're not happy here."
"Oh, what does my happiness matter?"
"I should like to see you happy."