ANABEL. Most days.

GERALD. Well, I'm--well, I'll be--you managed it very sharp, didn't
you? I've only been away a fort-night.

ANABEL. Your father asked me--he offered me twelve pounds a month--
I wanted to do something.

GERALD. Oh yes, but you didn't hire yourself out at Lilley Close as
a sort of upper servant just for twelve pounds a month.

ANABEL. You're wrong--you're wrong. I'm not a sort of upper servant
at all--not at all.

GERALD. Oh, yes, you are, if you're paid twelve pounds a month--three
pounds a week. That's about what father's sick-nurse gets, I believe.
You don't do it for twelve pounds a month. You can make twelve pounds
in a day, if you like to work at your little models: I know you can
sell your statuette things as soon as you make them.

ANABEL. But I CAN'T make them. I CAN'T make them. I've lost the
spirit--the--_joi de vivre_--I don't know what, since I've been ill.
I tell you I've GOT to earn something.

GERALD. Nevertheless, you won't make me believe, Anabel, that you've
come and buried yourself in the provinces--SUCH provinces--just to
earn father's three pounds a week. Why don't you admit it, that you
came back to try and take up the old threads.