“No—it’s myself, the greater part of self, I dare say. But Lizzie Parsons isn’t all dead yet and I don’t want her to die—” She blinked up at him. “Don’t make me cry, please,—or the shadows will all come off my eyes.”
His eyes took in the luxurious appointment of the car, mauve enameled vanity apparatus on one side, smoking outfit on the other, gilt vase with its spray of fresh orchids, soft tan cushions and robe of fur. He gave her a warming look of satisfaction.
“I should say the exchange was all for the better. You must be making a mint.”
“One hundred and fifty a week.”
“One hundred and fifty—?”
“That’s my contract.”
“But good Lord—”
“Oh, I made it with my eyes open. It extends over the first five years—with an option on the next five.”
“But all this—” He waved his arm, bewildered, through the air.
“All this he gives me—my clothes, my car and its upkeep, my jewels, though they’re mostly paste, everything except my home. I wouldn’t let him give me that.”