Two Worlds and Their Ways

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“My Dear, Good wife!” said Sir Roderick Shelley.

The former replied without raising her head.

“The money subscribed divided by the number of subscribers gives you the average subscription. Twenty-four pounds, ten shillings and sixpence, divided by thirty-five. Would you do a sum like that in your head, Roderick? Or could you not do it at all?”

The latter expressed no opinion, indeed had none.

“Come, my pretty,” he said.

“Fourteen shillings,” said Maria Shelley, looking at him over her pencil. “Of course I am neglecting the pence.”

Her husband repeated his words, neglecting the pounds and shillings also.

Maria gave him a smile and extended a hand in his direction, or gave the smile to herself and put a hand into space. He tapped a spoon on a saucer with more acquiescence than impatience, and rested his eyes on the scene beyond the window. His most satisfying vision was the flat, green land about his fading walls, and his only music the wind in his native trees sighing over the ground where he would lie. To be without it would be to be without a grave.

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