“Are we so little married that what is mine is not yours also?”
“It is because you are my wife, Kate, that I consider these things. Your mother was wise, though her instructions do not flatter me. Legally, I cannot touch a single penny.”
She looked troubled, and a little impatient.
“I shall hate the money—if—no, I don’t mean that. But, dear,” and she drew very close to him in the twilight of the streets, “it will make no difference. You will not feel—?”
“Feel, Kate?”
“That it is mine, and not yours. You know, dear, what I mean. I don’t want to think—to think that you will feel as though you had to ask.”
They looked, man and wife, into each other’s eyes.
“I shall ask, Kate, because—”
“Because?”
“You are what you are. It will not hurt me to remember that the stuff is yours.”