ura's income, contrasted, as Prothero persisted in
contrasting it, with her own size, was excessively absurd. Large and
comfortable as it appeared to Prothero, it was not yet so large nor was
it so comfortable that Laura could lie back and rest on it. She was
heartrending, irritating, maddening to Prothero in her refusals to lie
back on it and rest. She toiled prodigiously, incessantly,
indefatigably. She implored Prothero to admit that if she was prodigious
and incessant, she _was_ indefatigable, she never tired. There was
nothing wonderful in what she did. She had caught the silly trick of it.
It could be done, she assured him, standing on your head. She enjoyed
doing it. The wonderful thing was that she should be paid for her
enjoyment, instead of having to pay for it, like other people. He argued
vainly that once you had achieved an income it was no longer necessary
to set your teeth and go at it like that.

And the more he argued the more Laura laughed at him. "I can't help it,"
she said; "I've got the habit. You'll never break me of it, after all
these years."

For the Kiddy, even in her affluence, was hounded and driven by the
memory of her former poverty. She had no illusions. She had never had
them; and there was nothing spectral about her fear. After all, looking
at it sanely, it didn't amount to so very much, what she had made. And
it wasn't really an income; it was only a little miserable capital. It
had no stability. It might at any moment cease. She might have an
illness, or Owen might have one; he very probably would, considering the
pace _he_ went at it. Or the "Morning Telegraph" might throw him over.
All sorts of things might happen. In her experience they generally did.

Of course, in a way Owen was right. They didn't want all the money. But
what he didn't see was that you had to make ten times more than you
wanted, in order to secure, ultimately, an income. And then, in the
first excitement of it, she had rather launched out. To begin with, she
had bought the house, to keep out the other lodgers. They were always
bringing coughs and colds about the place and giving them to Owen. And
she had had two rooms thrown into one so as to give Owen's long legs
space to ramp up and down in. The den he had chosen had been too small
for him. He was better, she thought, since he had had his great room.
The house justified itself. It was reassuring to know that whatever
happened they would have a roof over their