“How rich?”
“Awfully rich. Two thousand big, round, hard, beautiful dollars. Isn’t that grand!”
“I don’t know that it’s grand. But it’s good—with care.”
“It’s twice as much as I’ve ever made in a whole year of work on my silly little wall-paper designs.” Darcy directed a resentful look at the imitation-leather roll, lying in the corner where she had kicked it.
“Where did you get it?”
“My blessed old Aunt Sarah wrote it to me.”
“Wrote it? Wrote you two thousand dollars?”
“Yes. Why not? She’d intended to leave it to me when she died. But she doesn’t feel like dying for a long time yet; so she wrote and said that she preferred giving it and getting thanked because it was so much, rather than willing it and getting roasted because it was so little.”
“Sensible auntie! Are you going to be sensible too?”
“How?”