Emmy had a small income under her father's will, and the prospect of earning a modest salary on the stage.
She reckoned that she would have sufficient to provide for herself and the child.

Hitherto Septimus had been her banker.

Neither of them had any notion of the value of money, and Septimus had a child's faith in the magic of the drawn check.

He would as soon have thought of measuring the portion of whisky he poured out for a guest as of counting the money he advanced to Emmy.
She took up his last words, and speaking in a low tone, as a woman does when her pride has gone from her, she said: "Haven't you acquired enough merit already, my dear?
Don't you see the impossibility of my going on accepting things from you?
You seem to take it for granted that you're to provide for me and the child for the rest of our lives.

I've been a bad, unprincipled fool of a girl, I know--yes, rotten bad; there are thousands like me in London--" Septimus rose to his feet.
"Oh, don't, Emmy, don't! I can't stand it." She rose too and put her hands on his shoulders.
"You must let me speak to-night--our last night before we part.