"Oh, yes. It's reasonable. I'm not saying anything about that ... only it's a disappointment!"
"I'm disappointed myself," he said, ruefully contemplating the letter.
"How much do you think you'll make out of it, John?" Eleanor asked pensively.
"Make? Oh, I don't know. About a hundred pounds or so on the first performances ... and then there's the London season ... and of course if the play's a great success, we shall make our fortune. But I think we can reckon on a hundred pounds anyhow. I don't want to expect too much. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I'm getting anxious about money. You see, dear, you haven't earned much since we got married, have you?"
"No, not much. One or two articles in the Sensation. But you needn't worry about that. I'll look after the money part. Don't you worry!"
"Perhaps you could get a regular job on the Evening Herald now that Mr. Hinde's in charge of it," she suggested.
Hinde had recently been appointed editor of the Evening Herald.
"Oh, no, Eleanor, I don't want a journalist's job. I'm a writer ... an artist ... not a reporter. Besides, I shouldn't have time to work at the book I'm doing now. Look at Hinde. He never has time to do anything but journalism. The worst of work like that is that after a time you can't do anything else. You think in paragraphs!..."
"Supposing the play isn't a success ... I mean a financial success?" she asked.