“Quite easily—by getting money.”
“I can’t!” she cried.
“Well, I guess I’m not going to starve and see you living in luxury—a leader of London society. It isn’t likely, now, is it?”
“No; knowing you as well as I do, I suppose it isn’t likely.”
“Ah! You do me an injustice, Jean,” he said. “I only want just sufficient to get away from here—to America—and begin afresh a new life. I’ll turn over a new leaf—believe me, I will. I want to, but I haven’t the cash-money to do it. To be honest costs money.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “I suppose it does. And to be dishonest, alas! is always profitable in these days, when honour stands at a premium.”
“Well, how much can you get for me?” he asked roughly.
“Nothing,” she replied, holding out her hands in despair. “Where am I to get money from?”
“You know best, Jean. I don’t. All I know is, I want money—and I mean to have it.”