“And starve—” Mrs. Meredith shrugged her shapely shoulders.
Anne colored hotly at her mother’s tone. “There is always work to be found—honest work,” she contended stubbornly.
“For trained workers,” Mrs. Meredith supplemented.
“I can study stenography—typewriting,” Anne persisted.
“And what are we to live on in the meantime?” with biting irony. “The savings from your allowance?”
Again the carmine dyed Anne’s pale cheeks. “My allowance,” she echoed. “It has kept me in clothes and a little spending money. But you, mother, you had father’s life insurance—”
“My investments have not turned out well,” Mrs. Meredith looked away from her daughter. “Frankly, Anne, I haven’t a penny to my name.”
Anne regarded her blankly. “But your bank account at Riggs’—”
“Is overdrawn!” Walking swiftly over to her desk she took a letter from one of the pigeonholes. “Here is the notification—see for yourself.” She tossed the paper into Anne’s lap. “If you refuse to accede to your uncle’s wishes, we leave this house beggars.”
Beggars! The word beat its meaning into Anne Meredith’s brain with cruel intensity. Brought up in luxury, with every wish gratified, could it be that want stared her in the face? Her gaze wandered about the cozy boudoir, and she took in its dainty furnishings, bespeaking wealth and good taste, with clearer vision than ever before. With a swift, half unconscious movement she covered her eyes with her fingers and found the lids wet with tears.