“Two dollars,” he replied carelessly. “Why?”
Marcia gasped. “Two dollars! Oh, Bartley, we couldn't afford it!”
“It seems we did.”
“And here,—how much are we paying here?”
“That room, with fire,” said Bartley, stretching himself, “is seven dollars a day—”
“We mustn't stay another instant!” said Marcia, all a woman's terror of spending money on anything but dress, all a wife's conservative instinct, rising within her. “How much have you got left?”
Bartley took out his pocket-book and counted over the bills in it. “A hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Why, what has become of it all? We had a hundred and sixty!”
“Well, our railroad tickets were nineteen, the sleeping-car was three, the parlor-car was three, the theatre was two, the hack was fifty cents, and we'll have to put down the other two and a half to refreshments.”
Marcia listened in dismay. At the end she drew a long breath. “Well, we must go away from here as soon as possible,—that I know. We'll go out and find some boarding-place. That's the first thing.”