"Quite so, quite so. Of course one doesn't think of such things, right at first. And you've had a knock-down—a regular smasher, old chap." He stopped, cleared his voice and said sympathetically: "You adored her?"
"I suppose I could give up the apartment and sell the auto," said Lightbody slowly, speaking to himself.
De Gollyer smiled—a bachelor smile.
"Riches, my boy," he said, tapping him on the shoulder with the same quick, awakening Mephistophelean touch.
The contact raised Lightbody from revery. He drew back, shocked at the ways through which his thoughts had wandered.
"No, no, Jim," he said. "No, you mustn't, nothing like that—not at such a time."
"You're right," said De Gollyer, instantly masked in gravity. "You're quite right. Still, we are looking things in the face—planning for the future. Of course it's a delicate question, terrifically delicate. I'm almost afraid to put it to you. Come, now, how shall I express it—delicately? It's this way. Fifteen thousand a year divided by one is fifteen thousand, isn't it; but fifteen thousand a year divided by two, may mean—" He straightened up, heels clicking, throwing out his elbows slightly and lifting his chin from the high, white stockade on which it reposed. "Come, now, we're men of the world, aren't we? Now, as a matter of fact how much of that fifteen thousand a year came back to you?"
"My dear Jim," said Lightbody, feeling that generosity should be his part, "a woman, a modern woman, a New York woman, you just said it—takes—takes—"
"Twelve thousand—thirteen thousand?"
"Oh, come! Nonsense," said Lightbody, growing quite angry. "Besides, I don't—"