“Yes, I forgot you were poor,” Barnaby replied a little peevishly, rolling his eyes to suggest that poverty and unwanted responsibilities were petty problems compared to – oh, serious dampers like being dead for nearly three hundred years. And unable to eat or drink or touch anything, or have any money at all, let alone send mistresses pearls. (It was the thought of an – unattainably alive – Italian soprano that had put him out of sorts, probably.)
If he wanted to keep bickering, he might have pointed out that in Life he had been precisely the sort of man Greengrass was disparaging, with more mistresses than responsibilities, but Barnaby suspected his pout was making that clear enough already.
“Well, perhaps you ought to find yourself one to relieve the pressure of all your responsibilities,” Barnaby offered after a beat, in an attempting-to-be-a-helpful-friend sort of magnanimous tone – since Greengrass was doing him favours turning pages for him to begin with, and had been in a fairly good mood before this difference in opinion, even if he was trying to shove feeble love poetry down his throat. And this had nothing to do with poetry anymore, but all the same. Greengrass did work terribly hard in his day-to-day. “She may not be a talented soprano, but I’m sure there is still a strumpet somewhere whom you could afford.” He waved a hand knowingly. “Unless you’re saving up to wed some pretty childhood sweetheart, I suppose?”
If he wanted to keep bickering, he might have pointed out that in Life he had been precisely the sort of man Greengrass was disparaging, with more mistresses than responsibilities, but Barnaby suspected his pout was making that clear enough already.
“Well, perhaps you ought to find yourself one to relieve the pressure of all your responsibilities,” Barnaby offered after a beat, in an attempting-to-be-a-helpful-friend sort of magnanimous tone – since Greengrass was doing him favours turning pages for him to begin with, and had been in a fairly good mood before this difference in opinion, even if he was trying to shove feeble love poetry down his throat. And this had nothing to do with poetry anymore, but all the same. Greengrass did work terribly hard in his day-to-day. “She may not be a talented soprano, but I’m sure there is still a strumpet somewhere whom you could afford.” He waved a hand knowingly. “Unless you’re saving up to wed some pretty childhood sweetheart, I suppose?”
