"You haven't told us that."
"'Lectricity," said my uncle, taking breath after a deep draught of tea.
"If I make it at all," I said. "For my part I think shall be satisfied
with something less than a fortune."
"We're going to make ours--suddenly," she said.
"So HE old says." She jerked her head at my uncle.
"He won't tell me when--so I can't get anything ready. But it's
coming. Going to ride in our carriage and have a garden. Garden--like a
bishop's."
She finished her bun and twiddled crumbs from her fingers. "I shall be
glad of the garden," she said. "It's going to be a real big one with
rosaries and things. Fountains in it. Pampas grass. Hothouses."
"You'll get it all right," said my uncle, who had reddened a little.
"Grey horses in the carriage, George," she said. "It's nice to think
about when one's dull. And dinners in restaurants often and often. And
theatres--in the stalls. And money and money and money."
"You may joke," said my uncle, and hummed for a moment.
"Just as though an old Porpoise like him would ever make money,"
she said, turning her eyes upon his profile with a sudden lapse to
affection.
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