And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently brushing her forehead in their first kiss—until now the restraint of youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just short of any such sober admission of feeling—her cheek resting lightly against his coat, she said this:—
'I shouldn't have let myself be disturbed. I don't really care about Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of girl. Henry, you—you hurt me a little.' His eyes filled. He stood erect, looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long vista of the years. He compressed his lips.
'Of course,' he said bravely. 'We don't care about money We've got all our lives. I guess I can work. Prob'ly I'll write better for not having any. You know—it'll spur me. And I'll be working for you.'
He heard her whisper:—
'I'll be so proud, Henry.'
'What's money to us!' He seemed at last to be getting hold of this tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a ring in his voice: 'What's money to us!'
After all what is money to Twenty?