“Three hundred and sixty-five a year,” said she thoughtfully.

“And an extra one in Leap Year,” I warned her.

“Did I ever tell you,” she asked with pride, “that I have money of my own?”

“Hurrah!” I shouted.  “You darling!  How splendid!”

“Jimmy,” she said apprehensively, “you aren’t marrying me for it, are you?”

“How can I tell till I know how much you’ve got?”

“Well, at a pound a day it would take us to February 19th.  You’d have to begin from there.”

“What an heiress!  Promise you’ll never cast it in my teeth, dear, that I’ve got less than you.  I’ve got enough War Loan to take us on to the 23rd and halfway through the 24th; and Exchequer Bonds and things which will see us through—­er—­to about 7.15 P.M. on March 31st.  Then there’s my writing.”

“Oh,” she said in a surprised tone “do they pay you for that?  I always thought you gave them so much a line to put things in—­like advertisements, you know.”

“Madam,” I answered with dignity, “when you find yourself, from April 1st until April 20th, depending each year upon my pen for the very bread you eat, perchance you will regret those wounding words.”

“Well, what else?”

I shook my head.

“That’s all,” I said.  “We don’t seem to have got very far, do we?  Couldn’t you—­er—­trim hats, or take in washing, or something?”

“No—­but you could.  I mean, we haven’t counted in your salary yet, have we?”

“What salary?”

“Well, whatever they give you for doing whatever you do.  What were you getting before the War?”

“Oh, nothing much.”

“Yes, but how much?”

“Really,” I began stiffly.

“If you’re ashamed to say it right out, just tell me how far it would take us.”

“To about the end of September, I should think.”

“Oh, dear!  Three more months to go.”  A frown wrinkled her forehead; then her brow cleared.  “Why, of course we haven’t counted in the holidays.”

“They aren’t usually an asset.”

“Yes, they are—­if you spend them with your rich relations.  I’ve got lots, but I don’t think they’d like you much.”

“All right,” said I shortly; “keep your beastly relations.  I shall go to Uncle Alfred for October. He loves me.”

“That leaves November and December,” she mused.  “Oh, well, there’s nothing else for it—­we must quarrel.”

“What, now?”

“No, stupid.  Every October 31st, by letter.  Then I’ll go home to mother, and you’ll stay with Uncle Alfred some more.  I hope he’ll like it.”

“Y-e-s,” I said doubtfully.  “That would do it, of course.  But we shan’t see very much of each other that way, shall we?  Still, I suppose....  Good Heavens!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Phyllis, we’ve forgotten all about income-tax.  That means about another two months to account for.”