"Do you mind," suggested Mark, "telling me how much that was?"
"I don't mind telling you anything," she said. "I want you to know all about me. I love to tell you. It was invested to bring in a hundred and twenty pounds a year; but what is that?"
"Not enough to live upon as you are living here," he admitted.
"Nor anywhere else," she replied. "It's no earthly use, Mark. I am spoiled for that. I draw cheques when I want any money, and now and then I get a letter from the bank manager to say my account is overdrawn. I go to see him; my deed-box is fetched up from the realms below, the manager sells something for me, and so I go along till the next time."
"Then you are living on your capital!" cried Mark.
"What else can I live upon?" she demanded.
"The interest—naturally."
"Now, do you really think I look the sort of person to live on a hundred pounds a year?" she said, throwing out her hands.
"But if you haven't got any more! Don't you realize," he suggested, "that the day is bound to come when you will find yourself out in the cold?"
"Oh yes," she said, with a sigh. "That's when I get a fit of the miserables. But something is certain to happen."