Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
own standard of wealth,” I pointed out. “We are very far from rich.”
“You would settle, say, five thousand a year on her?,” he proposed. “The cost of living has reduced that to little more than three thousand by the standard of prices before the war.”
“Sir Appleton,” I said as patiently as I could, “if we had five thousand a year to throw about, we should not be inviting your generous assistance in finding a position for Will.”
It was more than time to dismiss this girl and get to business. . .
“Five hundred, then,” he suggested.
“A year? For all her life?,” I asked, hardly believing my ears. If he could have had any conception what Arthur allows me to dress on. . .
“Your son’s costly regard will affect the whole of her life,” said Sir Appleton.
“I won’t go into that,” I said. “I admit nothing. But I can tell you that it would be out of the question.”
“Fifty pounds then?,” he went on remorselessly. “It’s less than a pound a week—with present purchasing power of about a shilling a day.”
“I don’t think we need discuss this,” I said. “If the story’s true, this girl will find that we shall not behave illiberally to her. I don’t admit
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