"Exactly. And there you are!—as Henry James's characters are so fond of saying."
They gazed at each other mutely.
"We should be beggars with our tastes," she resumed. "It would never do, would it, dear? You see, I have considered the subject."
"I perceive that you have." The pensiveness of his tone was a virtual admission that he had failed to recognize how subtle she had been.
"The other was our only chance," she repeated. "I would have gone with you, probably, if you had consented."
"But I do consent, if you wish it," he asserted eagerly; and falling on his knee he reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. For the first time in his life he had yielded to the intoxication of love against his reason. The charm of this elusive, chameleon-like being had got the better for the moment both of his discretion and his inherent selfishness.
Though the capitulation entranced Lydia, it had come too slowly and too late. She shook her head. "It is you who have convinced me. You are perfectly right. I should tire without things—of living on next to nothing. It would be impossible. You knew me better than I did myself." She freed her hand gently from his blandishments and smiled in his face.
He rose and looked down at her again from the rustic pillar. "We might manage somehow. I should be ready to try." He was nerved for the sacrifice.
"On six thousand? Oh, no, you wouldn't. At any rate, I should not."
It was futile to pretend that it would be adequate. "We might live abroad. Things are cheaper there," he suggested.