Dorothy summoned what interest she could.—“Not an agency or anything?” she asked, wiping her eyes.
“Better than that.”
“Well, some agencies are very good.”
“Not as good as this!”
“Put your arm round me. I’ve been feeling so wretched!”
“Come and sit here. There. Wretched, eh? Well, would three hundred a year cheer you up any?”
It would have, very considerably; but Stan’s schemes were seldom estimated to produce a sum less than that.
“Eh?” Stan continued. “Paid weekly or monthly, whichever I like, and a month’s screw to be going on with?”
Suddenly Dorothy straightened herself in his arms. She knew that Stan was trying to rouse her, but he needn’t use a joke with quite so sharp a barb. She sank back again.
“Don’t, dear,” she begged. “I know it’s stupid of me, but I’m so dull to-day. You go out somewhere this evening, and I’ll go to bed early and sleep it off. I shall be all right again in the morning.”