"You're in love with her!" Helena declared with spirit.
"Quite true, but—"
"Then why," she begged in tones of moderate exasperation—"why do you object—hang fire—run away like a silly, frightened schoolboy as soon as I get everything arranged for you?"
"But, you see, I'm not in a position to get married yet," he argued. "I haven't—"
"How's that—'not in a position'?" she interrupted testily.
"You keep forgetting I'm the family pauper, the poor relation, whereas Venetia has all the money there is, more or less."
"There you are!" Helena turned her palms out expressively; folded them in resignation. "What more can you ask?"
"Something more nearly approaching an equal footing, at least."
"Jack!"—she turned to him with a fine air of innocence—"how much money have you got, anyway?"
"Thirty-six hundred per annum, as you know very well," he replied. "But, my dear, dear aunty (you're one of the most beautiful creatures alive and I'm awfully proud and fond of you) surely you must understand that no decent fellow wants to go to the girl he's in love with and make a proposition like this: 'I've got thirty-six hundred and you've got three hundred and sixty thousand; let's marry and divide.'"