Barry Pain

“ I, say, Bertha, what about bulb-growing? Fortunes have been made by it."
"You've got to know how, and I believe you have to wait six years."
"And that settles that," said Clara definitely, as she dropped the relics of a tangerine orange into the coke stove.
For a moment the conversation lingered, and then Bertha said suddenly: "There's a tot of red tape about betting, isn't there?"
"I know," said Clara. "I can't make out how on earth men manage to ruin themselves by gambling. Once you really go into it, it doesn't seem up to much." ”

“ As they were not artists nor even art students, the first thing to do was, naturally, to take a studio. There they lived principally on tea—did ingenious things with chintz and packing-cases, and discussed methods of making a livelihood, such as cinema acting, photography, hat-making, house decoration, confectionery—they could both make peppermint creams—book-binding, the forcing of early rhubarb, with mushrooms as a side-line, the opening of a tea shop, and other avocations. ”

“ But why can't we bet some even sum of money—say, twopence?"
"Because ladies don't bet actual money—except with bookmakers."
"I say, Clara, did you ever make a bet with a real bookmaker?"
"Not yet; but I might—if we go to the Derby together."
"Do let's. It would be too thrilling. What colour do you like best for a horse? Oh, yes. But about that bet. It won't do, you see, because, if you win, you'll get two cigarettes, and you don't smoke."
"That's true," said Clara meditatively. "But if you win, you get a tangerine, and you simply hate them. ”