“Of course,” she explained to him, “I understand how little we’ve got to spend; but I left New York without a rag, and it was you who made me countermand my trousseau, instead of having it sent after us.  I wish now I hadn’t listened to you—­father’d have had to pay for that before he lost his money.  As it is, it will be cheaper in the end for me to pick up a few things here.  The advantage of going to the French dress-makers is that they’ll wait twice as long for their money as the people at home.  And they’re all crazy to dress me—­Bertha Shallum will tell you so:  she says no one ever had such a chance!  That’s why I was willing to come to this stuffy little hotel—­I wanted to save every scrap I could to get a few decent things.  And over here they’re accustomed to being bargained with—­you ought to see how I’ve beaten them down!  Have you any idea what a dinner-dress costs in New York—?”

So it went on, obtusely and persistently, whenever he tried to sound the note of prudence.  But on other themes she was more than usually responsive.  Paris enchanted her, and they had delightful hours at the theatres—­the “little” ones—­amusing dinners at fashionable restaurants, and reckless evenings in haunts where she thrilled with simple glee at the thought of what she must so obviously be “taken for.”  All these familiar diversions regained, for Ralph, a fresh zest in her company.  Her innocence, her high spirits, her astounding comments and credulities, renovated the old Parisian adventure and flung a veil of romance over its hackneyed scenes.  Beheld through such a medium the future looked less near and implacable, and Ralph, when he had received a reassuring letter from his sister, let his conscience sleep and slipped forth on the high tide of pleasure.  After all, in New York amusements would be fewer, and their life, for a time, perhaps more quiet.  Moreover, Ralph’s dim glimpses of Mr. Spragg’s past suggested that the latter was likely to be on his feet again at any moment, and atoning by redoubled prodigalities for his temporary straits; and beyond all these possibilities there was the book to be written—­the book on which Ralph was sure he should get a real hold as soon as they settled down in New York.

Meanwhile the daily cost of living, and the bills that could not be deferred, were eating deep into Laura’s subsidy.  Ralph’s anxieties returned, and his plight was brought home to him with a shock when, on going one day to engage passages, he learned that the prices were that of the “rush season,” and one of the conditions immediate payment.  At other times, he was told the rules were easier; but in September and October no exception could be made.

As he walked away with this fresh weight on his mind he caught sight of the strolling figure of Peter Van Degen—­Peter lounging and luxuriating among the seductions of the Boulevard with the disgusting ease of a man whose wants are all measured by money, and who always has enough to gratify them.