We finished the first bottle of champagne before the plan of my companion began to be developed. He ordered another; but I ought to add, in justice to myself, that he drank three glasses to my one. His frequent potations, however, seemed to have but little effect upon him, for he was accustomed to drink stronger fluids than champagne.
“Glasswood, what salary do you get now?” asked Cormorin, after we had begun upon the second bottle.
“Two thousand,” I replied.
“The same as mine. But can you live upon it?”
“I think I can, though I have not had much experience since I was married.”
“I can’t live on mine.”
“You drink expensive wines.”
“’Pon my soul, I don’t!” he protested. “I haven’t tasted champagne, except at your house-warming, for a year, until this afternoon. I can’t afford to drink champagne more than once a year; and I have to stimulate on cheap whiskey. Well, even on this camphene, I can’t make the ends meet. I’m as economical as a London Jew. I don’t spend a cent on luxuries. I don’t go to the opera above a dozen times a year. I don’t own a horse. I don’t average hiring one more than once a week. I have been in the same fix these two years.”
“What do you mean—that you run in debt?” I inquired, willing to help him reach the point at which he was evidently aiming.