“You had better go to London, Anne,” he said, “and borrow some money.”
“Of whom am I to borrow it?” she asked. “Florence and Walter are at Monte Carlo.”
“Walter is very selfish,” he answered; “I nursed him through an illness, years ago, at the risk of my own life.”
“I know how tender your heart is, dear Alfred.”
“I believe he resents my having borrowed some money from him once or twice. He forgets that if he were not in a much better position than I am he couldn’t have lent it.”
“Of course he could not, my love,” she said, agreeing with him, as a matter not merely of course but of loyalty and affection.
He gave one of his little gulps. “We can’t go on staying here, unless we have enough to eat; I cannot, at any rate. You must get some money. You had better go to London.” He looked at her fixedly, and she knew that he wanted to get rid of her for a space.
“Go to London, my love?” she echoed, almost humbly.
“Yes, to get money.”
“Alfred,” she asked, “how am I to get money? We disposed of everything that was available before we came here.”