"
His tone made her sit bolt upright. Then she laughed a little.
"Poor old Clay," she said, with the caressing tone she used when
she meant to make no concession. "I do spend money, don't I? But
I do make you comfortable, you know. And what is what I spend,
compared with what you are making?"
"It's just that. I don't think I can consistently go on making a
profit on this war, now that we are in it."
He explained then what he meant, and watched her face set into the
hard lines he knew so well. But she listened to the end and when
he had finished she said nothing.
"Well?" he said.
"I don't think you have the remotest idea of doing it. You like
to play at the heroic. You can see yourself doing it, and every
one pointing to you as the man who threw away a fortune. But you
are humbugging yourself. You'll never do it. I give you credit
for too much sense."
He went rather white. She knew the weakness in his armor, his
hatred of anything theatrical, and with unfailing accuracy she
always pierced it.
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