"Oh, you'll eat your cake first, eh? Not a bad idea; you're sure of getting it, then."
"Then we can get such ducks of flats in Auteuil."
"The Harlem of Paris," Persis sneered, then grew more amiable. "A duck of an apartment is all very well, my dear, for those who have wings; but climbing stairs—ugh! Four flights of stairs six times a day—that's twenty-four flights. Seven times twenty-four is—help!"
"One hundred and sixty-eight, I believe," said Stowe, after a mental twist.
"Bravo! You're a regular wizard at mathematics," said Persis. "One hundred and sixty-eight flights of stairs a week, and fifty-two times one hundred and sixty-eight is how much? Quick!"
"You've got me there. I fancy I could do it with a piece of chalk and a blackboard."
"Well, it's a million, I'm sure," Persis summed it. "Think of that! a million flights of stairs the first year of marriage! What love could survive it? And how many rooms is your sky-parlor going to have?"
"Seven and bath."
"On twelve hundred a year?" Persis gasped. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"
"Well, we could manage with two."