But immediately she was
businesslike again. "However, the lean years have set in," she
announced. "I'll have to count on a dollar a week laundry--laundry
and rent nine dollars and a half; piano and telephone at the rate
of three dollars a month--that's a dollar and a half more; milk, a
quart of milk and half a pint of cream a day, a dollar and
seventy-five cents more; what does that leave, Bert?"
"It leaves twelve dollars and twenty-five cents," said Bert.
"But what about your lunches, dearest?"
"Gosh! I forgot them," Bert stated frankly. "I'll keep 'em under
fifteen cents a day," he added, "call it a dollar a week!"
"You can't!" protested Nancy, with a look of despair.
"I can if I've got to. Besides, we'll be off places, Sundays, and
I'll come home for lunch Saturday, and you'll feed me up."
"But, Bert," she began again presently, "I'll have to get ice, and
car fares, and drugs, and soap, and thread, and butter, and bread,
and meat, and salad-oil, and everything else in the world out of
that eleven-fifty!" Bert was frowning hard.
"You can't have the whole eleven-fifty," he told her reluctantly,
"I can walk one way, to Forty-Eighth Street, but I can't walk
both.
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