CHAPTER III
They rode up-town in a Subway express to Forty-second Street. Their first business treaty had to be drawn up in the crowd.
“How much do you want to pay for the flat, honey?” said Kedzie.
Gilfoyle was startled. Already the money-snake was in their Eden. And she asked him how much he “wanted” to pay! It was only a form of speech, but it grated on him.
“I haven't time to figure it out,” he fretted. “I get twenty-five dollars a week—darling. That's a hundred a month—dear.” His pet names came afterward, mere trailers. “Out of that we've got to get something to eat and to wear, and there'll be street-car fare to pay and—tooth-powder to buy, and we'll want something for theater tickets, and—” He was aghast; at the multitude of things married people need. He added, “And we ought to save a little, I suppose.”
“I suppose so,” said Kedzie, who was as much taken aback by the mention of economy at such a time as he was by the mention of expenditure. But she rose bravely to the responsibility: “I'll do the best I can, and we'll be so cozy—ooh!”
Kedzie was used to small figures. He put into her hand all the cash he had with him, which was all he had on earth—forty-two dollars. He borrowed back the two dollars. Kedzie had her own money, about forty more dollars. This, with twenty-five dollars a week, seemed big; enough to her to keep them in luxury. They parted at the Grand Central Terminal with looks of devoted agony.
She set out at once to look at flats and to visit furniture-stores. She bought a Herald and read the numberless advertisements. Something was the matter everywhere. She had gone far and found nothing but discouragement when the luncheon hour arrived.