It was in a boat among reeds upon the lake of Orta that Trafford first
became familiarized with the idea that Marjorie was capable of debt.
"Oh, I ought to have told you," she began, apropos of nothing.
Her explanation was airy; she had let the thing slip out of her mind for
a time. But there were various debts to Oxbridge tradespeople. How much?
Well, rather a lot. Of course, the tradespeople were rather enticing
when first one went up----How much, anyhow?
"Oh, about fifty pounds," said Marjorie, after her manner. "Not _more_.
I've not kept all the bills; and some haven't come in. You know how slow
they are."
"These things _will_ happen," said Trafford, though, as a matter of
fact, nothing of the sort had happened in his case. "However, you'll be
able to pay as soon as you get home, and get them all off your mind."
"I think fifty pounds will clear me," said Marjorie, clinging to her
long-established total, "if you'll let me have that."
"Oh, we don't do things like that," said Trafford. "I'm arranging that
my current account will be a sort of joint account, and your signature
will be as good as mine--for the purpose of drawing, at least. You'll
have your own cheque-book----"
"I don't understand, quite," said Marjorie.
"You'll have your own cheque-book and write cheques as you want them.
That seems the simplest way to me."
"Of course," said Marjorie. "But isn't this--rather unusual? Father
always used to allowance mother."
"It's the only decent way according to my ideas," said Trafford. "A man
shouldn't marry when he can't trust."
"Of course not," said Marjorie. Something between fear and compunction
wrung her. "Do you think you'd better?" she asked, very earnestly.
"Better?"
"Do this."
"Why not?"
"It's--it's so generous."
He didn't answer. He took up an oar and began to push out from among the
reeds with something of the shy awkwardness of a boy who becomes
apprehensive of thanks. He stole a glance at her presently and caught
her expression--there was something very solemn and intent in her
eyes--and he thought what a grave, fine thing his Marjorie could be.
But, indeed, her state of mind was quite exceptionally confused. She was
disconcerted--and horribly afraid of herself.
"Do you mean that I can spend what I like?" asked Marjorie.
"Just as I may," he said.
"I wonder," said Marjorie again, "if I'd better."
She was tingling with delight at this freedom, and she knew she was not
fit for its responsibility. She just came short of a passionate refusal
of his proposal. He was still so new to her, and things were so
wonderful, or I think she would have made that refusal.
"You've got to," said Trafford, and ended the matter.
So Marjorie was silent--making good resolutions.