“Eighty dollars a month––why?”
“Ten more than me.” Jim laughed harshly. “You’re the better match. You’re younger, too.”
“She’s got a wad of her own. A thousand dollars,” added Will.
His remark was unpleasing, and Jim’s eyes grew colder.
“That don’t cut any figure. That’s hers,” he said sharply.
“But––it’s useful–––”
“To her––maybe.”
The flow of their talk dried up again. They could make no headway in clearing up their dilemma. To Jim each passing moment was making things harder; with each passing moment their friendship was straining under the pressure. Suddenly a thought flashed through his brain. It was a light of hope, where, before, all had been darkness.
“I haven’t asked her yet,” he said. “And you––you haven’t?”