“Three hundred and seventy-four dollars and sixteen cents,” she said, when she had finished counting. “Why, we’re almost rich, and a little while ago you tried to make me think we were poor!”
“It’s all I have, Dorothy—every blooming cent, except one dollar in the savings bank. Sort of a nest egg I had left,” he explained.
“Wait a minute,” she said, reaching down into her collar and drawing up a loop of worn ribbon. “Straight front corset,” she observed, flushing, “makes a nice pocket for almost everything.” She drew up a chamois-skin bag, of an unprepossessing mouse colour, and emptied out a roll of bills. “Two hundred and twelve dollars,” she said, proudly, “and eighty-three cents and four postage stamps in my purse.
“I saved it,” she continued, hastily, “for an emergency, and I wanted some silk stockings and a French embroidered corset and some handmade lingerie worse than you can ever know. Wasn’t I a brave, heroic, noble woman?”
“Indeed you were,” he cried, “but, Dorothy, you know I can’t touch your money!”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because—because—because it isn’t right. Do you think I’m cad enough to live on a woman’s earnings?”
“Harlan,” said Dorothy, kindly, “don’t be a fool. You’ll take my whole heart and soul and life—all that I have been and all that I’m going to be—and be glad to get it, and now you’re balking at ten cents that I happened to have in my stocking when I took the fatal step.”
“Dear heart, don’t. It’s different—tremendously different. Can’t you see that it is?”
“Do you mean that I’m not worth as much as two hundred and twelve dollars and eighty-three cents and four postage stamps?”