"You're a good sort, Tommy. I always knew it."

"Rot!" said Tommy hastily. "Well, that's my position. I'm just
about desperate."

"So am I! I've hung out as long as I could. I've touted round.
I've answered advertisements. I've tried every mortal blessed
thing. I've screwed and saved and pinched! But it's no good. I
shall have to go home!"

"Don't you want to?"

"Of course I don't want to! What's the good of being
sentimental? Father's a dear--I'm awfully fond of him--but you've
no idea how I worry him! He has that delightful early Victorian
view that short skirts and smoking are immoral. You can imagine
what a thorn in the flesh I am to him! He just heaved a sigh of
relief when the war took me off. You see, there are seven of us
at home. It's awful! All housework and mothers' meetings! I
have always been the changeling. I don't want to go back,
but--oh, Tommy, what else is there to do?"

Tommy shook his head sadly. There was a silence, and then
Tuppence burst out:

"Money, money, money! I think about money morning, noon and
night! I dare say it's mercenary of me, but there it is!"

"Same here," agreed Tommy with feeling.