"Oh, Ted, this is the twentieth century! I'm not telling you to hang up
your hat and live on your wife's private income--" "That's fortunate," from
Ted, rather stubbornly and with a set jaw.

"But there's no reason on earth--if you both really loved each other and
wanted to get married--why you couldn't let her pay her share for the first
few years. You know darn well you're going to make money sometime--"

"Well--yes."

"Well, then. And Elinor's sporting. She isn't the kind that needs six
butlers to live--she doesn't live that way now. That's just pride, Ted,
thinking that--and a rather bum variety of pride when you come down to it.
I hate these people who moan around and won't be happy unless they can do
everything themselves--they're generally the kind that give their wives a
charge account at Lucile's and ten dollars a year pocket money and go into
blue fits whenever poor spouse runs fifty cents over her allowance."

Ted pauses, considering. Finally,

"No, Ollie--I don't think I'm quite that kind of a fool. And almost thou
convincest me--and all that. But--well--that isn't the chief difficulty,
after all."

"Well, what _is_?" from Oliver, annoyedly.

Ted hesitates, speaking slowly.

"Well--after the fact that I'm not sure--France," he says at last, and his