"You promised to marry me when I had three hundred a year."

She was silent for a space. "Can't we go on for a time as we are? We
COULD marry on three hundred a year. But it means a very little house.
There's Smithie's brother. They manage on two hundred and fifty, but
that's very little. She says they have a semi-detached house almost on
the road, and hardly a bit of garden. And the wall to next-door is so
thin they hear everything. When her baby cries--they rap. And people
stand against the railings and talk.... Can't we wait? You're doing so
well."

An extraordinary bitterness possessed me at this invasion of the
stupendous beautiful business of love by sordid necessity. I answered
her with immense restraint.

"If," I said, "we could have a double-fronted, detached house--at
Ealing, say--with a square patch of lawn in front and a garden
behind--and--and a tiled bathroom."

"That would be sixty pounds a year at least."

"Which means five hundred a year.... Yes, well, you see, I told my uncle
I wanted that, and I've got it."

"Got what?"

"Five hundred pounds a year."

"Five hundred pounds!"