“True enough. Go on?”
“The prospect before us! I, the son of a poor prebend; you—well, it’s no use to talk of family affairs. We came over here in hopes of bettering our condition. The land of milk and honey turns out to be but gall and bitterness. We’ve but one hundred pounds left. When that’s gone, what next, Fan?”
Fan could not tell.
“We may expect but slight consideration for gentility here,” continued the adventurer. “Our cash once spent, what can I do—or what you? I know of nothing, except to take hold of the delicate ribbons of a street hack; while you must attune your musical ear to the tinkle of a sewing-machine, or the creaking of a mangle. By heaven! there’ll be no help for it?”
The ci-devant belle of Brompton, appalled by the prospect, started up from the rocking-chair, and once more commenced pacing the room.
Suddenly she stopped, and, turning to her husband, inquired:
“Do you intend to be true to me, Dick?”
The question was put in an eager, earnest tone.
Equally earnest was the answer:
“Of course I do. How can you doubt me, Fan? We’re both alike interested in the speculation. You may trust me as steel!”