“Oh gosh!” groaned Mike. He was lying on the hearth-rug with sheets of expensive note-paper scattered about him. He was writing.
“About money,” Charlot repeated firmly. “I do think, Charlie darling, don’t you, that we should make our plans at the very outset. Let’s face it; we’re poor people.” And catching sight of Roberta’s astonished eyes, Charlot repeated: “We’re going to be very hard up for a long time.”
“Well,” said Colin, “Step and I are going to get jobs.”
“And I shall be playing small but showy parts in no time,” added Frid.
“My poor babies,” Charlot exclaimed dramatically, “you are so sweet. But in the meantime …” She broke off. “What are you doing, Mike?”
“Writing a letter,” said Mike, blushing.
“To whom, darling?”
“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”
“What about?” asked Colin.
“Oh, something. As a matter of fac’ I just wanted to remind him about something. We were talking about jobs and I said I might rather like to be a detective.” He returned to his letter. Charlot shook her head fondly at him, lit a cigarette, and with an air of the greatest solemnity took up her theme. “In the meantime,” she said, “there will be the most ghastly death duties and then we shall have Deepacres and Brummell Street, and all the rest of it, hung round our necks like milestones.”