money do you think we have left, now that everything is settled?”
She stared and stopped her appreciative swaying of the Goo genius that had accompanied her description.
“You don’t mean… ?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Ever so much. We have been wild. It’s the interest. Or something. And the shares you had, slumped. Your father did not mind. Said it was not his business, after what had happened. He’s going to marry again… . Well—we have scarcely a thousand left!”
“Only a thousand?”
“Only a thousand.”
And Elizabeth sat down. For a moment she regarded him with a white face, then her eyes went about the quaint, old-fashioned room, with its middle Victorian furniture and genuine oleographs, and rested at last on the little lump of humanity within her arms.
Denton glanced at her and stood downcast. Then he swung round on his heel and walked up and down very rapidly.
“I must get something to do,” he broke out presently. “I am an idle scoundrel. I ought to have thought of this before. I have been a selfish fool. I wanted to be with you all day… .”
He stopped, looking at her white face. Suddenly he came and kissed her and the little face that nestled against her breast.
“It’s all right, dear,” he said, standing over her; “you won’t be lonely now—now Dings is beginning to talk to you. And I can soon get something to do, you know. Soon… . Easily… . It’s only a shock at first. But it will come all right. It’s sure to come right. I will go out again as soon as I have rested, and find what can be done. For the present it’s hard to think of anything… .”
“It would be hard to leave these rooms,” said Elizabeth; “but——”
“There won’t be any need of that—trust me.”
“They are expensive.”
Denton waved that aside. He began talking of the work he could do. He was not very explicit what it would be; but he was quite sure that there was something to keep them comfortably in the happy middle class, whose way of life was the only one they knew.
“There are three-and-thirty million people in London,” he said: “some of them must have need of me.”
“The trouble is … Well—Bindon, that brown little old man your father wanted you to marry. He’s an important person… . I can’t go back to my flying-stage work, because he is now a Commissioner of the Flying Stage Clerks.”