"If I earned, to start with, say fifty dollars a week--would you marry me on that?" "If I did, what would we live on?" she inquired. "Well, I have the house. That's provided for--all except the table." "But if I spent the fifty dollars for a new hat, then what would we have left for provisions?" "You mustn't spend it all on a new hat," he warned. "Then, there are gowns and--oh, lots of things you don't know anything about." "Couldn't you get along with a little less?" She thought a moment. "I don't see how," she decided. "I never get anything I don't want." "That's something," he nodded approvingly. "Then you think I must earn more than fifty a week?" "I only know that Dad gives me an allowance of ten thousand a year, and there's never anything left," she answered. "Ten thousand a year!" he exclaimed. "Everything is so expensive to-day, Don. All this talk sounds frightfully vulgar, but--there's no use pretending, is there?" "Not a bit," he answered. "If ten thousand a year is what you need, ten thousand a year is what I must earn." "I don't believe it's very hard, because Dad does it so easily," she declared. "I'll get it," he nodded confidently. "And, now that it's all settled, let's forget it. Come over to the piano and sing for me." He sat down before the keys and played her accompaniments, selecting his own songs. They ran through some of the latest opera successes, and then swung off to the simpler and older things. It was after "Annie Laurie" that he rose and looked deep into her eyes. "I'll get it for you," he said soberly. "Oh, Don!" she whispered. "Sometimes nothing seems important but just you." CHAPTER IV CONCERNING SANDWICHES The arrangement that Barton made for his late client's son was to enter the banking house of Carter, Rand & Seagraves, on a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. Don found the letter at the Harvard Club the next morning, and immediately telephoned Barton. "Look here!" he exclaimed. "I appreciate what you've tried to do and all that, but what in thunder good is twelve hundred dollars a year?" "It is at least twelve hundred more than you have now," suggested Barton. "But how can I live on it?" "You must remember you have the house--" "Hang the house," Don interrupted. "I must eat and smoke and buy clothes, mustn't I? Besides, there's Frances. She needs ten thousand a year." "I have no doubt but that, in time, a man of your ability--" "How long a time?" "As to that I am not prepared to give an opinion," replied Barton. "Because it isn't when I'm eighty that I want it." "I should say the matter was entirely in your own hands. This at least offers you an opening, and I advise you to accept it. However, you must decide for yourself; and if at any later date I may be of service--"