His voice was resentful. "You _can't_," he said compactly without
looking at her. "You've spent--enough."
"There's--things."
"What things?"
Her answer took some time in coming. "We'll have to give a wedding
present to Daffy.... I shall want--some more furniture."
Well, he had to go into it now. "I don't think you can have it," he
said, and then as she remained silent, "Marjorie, do you know how much
money I've got?"
"Six thousand."
"I _had_. But we've spent nearly a thousand pounds. Yes--one thousand
pounds--over and above income. We meant to spend four hundred. And now,
we've got--hardly anything over five."
"Five thousand," said Marjorie.
"Five thousand."
"And there's your salary."
"Yes, but at this pace----"
"Dear," said Marjorie, and her hands came about his neck, "dear--there's
something----"
She broke off. An unfamiliar quality in her voice struck into him. He
turned his head to see her face, rose to his feet staring at her.
This remarkable young woman had become soft and wonderful as April hills
across which clouds are sweeping. Her face was as if he had never seen
it before; her eyes bright with tears.
"Oh! don't let's spoil things by thinking of money," she said. "I've got
something----" Her voice fell to a whisper. "Don't let's spoil things by
thinking of money.... It's too good, dear, to be true. It's too good to
be true. It makes everything perfect.... We'll have to furnish that
little room. I didn't dare to hope it--somehow. I've been so excited and
afraid. But we've got to furnish that little room there--that empty
little room upstairs, dear, that we left over.... Oh my _dear!_ my
_dear!_"