"If I can't get anything to do," he added sententiously, "how on earth
do you think you're going to?"
"She doesn't mean it," said Sally's eldest sister. "She only thinks
it sounds self-sacrificing."
"Is that the kindest thing you can think of?" asked Sally. "I do mean
it. I've written to London and I've got the prospectus here of one
of the schools for teaching shorthand and typewriting. For eight
pounds they guarantee to make any one proficient in both--suitable
to take a secretaryship. Doesn't matter how long you'll stay; they
agree for that sum to make you proficient, and they also half promise
to get you a situation."
"And where are you going to get the eight pounds from?" said her
little sister.
"And where are you going to get the cost of your living up in Town?"
asked the wise young man, who knew how London could dissolve the money
in one's pocket.
"Oh, she's all right there," said the eldest sister bitterly. "I know
what she's thinking about. She's going to draw that money that
grandmama left her--that fifty pounds. I guessed she'd spend that
on herself one of these days."
"And who else was it left to?" asked Sally.
"Yes, my dear child," said her mother; "we know it was left to you,
of course; but since we came away from Cailsham"--her mouth pursed;
she admirably conveyed the effort of controlling her emotions--the
lump in the throat, the hasty swallowing and the blinking
eyes--"since we left Cailsham, I'd sometimes hoped--"
"Of course you had, mater," said the young man sympathetically.
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