“I won’t be getting thirty-five a week all my life. You’ve got brains enough to know that. Eugene wouldn’t be getting that much if he weren’t the son of his father.”
“The grandson of his grandfather,” Paula corrected him. “And I’m not so sure he wouldn't. Gene’s a born mechanic if they’d just let him work at it. He's crazy about engines and all that junk. But no—‘Millionaire Packer’s Son Learns Business from Bottom Rung of Ladder.’ Picture of Gene in workman’s overalls and cap in the Sunday papers. He drives to the office on Michigan at ten and leaves at four and he doesn’t know a steer from a cow when he sees it.”
“I don’t care a damn about Gene. I’m talking about you. You were joking, weren’t you?”
“I wasn't. I'd hate being poor, or even just moderately rich. I’m used to money—loads of it. I’m twenty-four. And I’m looking around.”
He kicked an innocent beet-top with his boot. “You like me better than any man you know.”
“Of course I do. Just my luck.”
“Well, then!”
“Well, then, let’s take these weggibles in and have ’em cooked in cream, as ordered.”
She made a pretense of lifting the heavy basket. Dirk snatched it roughly out of her hand so that she gave a little cry and looked ruefully down at the red mark on her palm. He caught her by the shoulder—even shook her a little. “Look here, Paula. Do
