g funny. What are
they--these long friends of yours?" she added, after a pause. "What do
they do in Paris?"

"They bring out books," Irene informed her.

"Books?" echoed Jenny. "What sort of books?"

"Ordinary books, I suppose," said Irene, slightly huffed by Jenny's
contemptuous incredulity.

"Well, what do they want to live in Paris for, if they're ordinary
books?"

"That's where their business is."

"Funny place to do a business in ordinary books."

"I don't see why."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. But _I_ think it's funny, that's all. You
_are_ deep, Irene."

"Oh, yes," said Irene, looking out of the window at the waves of light
that broke against the window with each passing street lamp. "You always
say that, but I'm not near so deep as what you are."

"Yes, you are, because I'm always catching you out in a lie _which_ you
don't me."

"No, because I'm not so nosy."

"Now don't be silly and get in a paddy about nothing," Jenny advised.
"You can't help having funny friends. Only what I can't understand is
myself. I think they're both beasts, and yet I'd like to see them again.
That's where I'm funny, I think."

Irene assumed an attitude of lofty indifference.

"There's no need for you to see them again, if you don't like them. Only
they give you a good time, and Arthur gave me some glorious rings."

"_Which_ your mother pawned," interrupted Jenny.

"And he's going to marry me," Irene persisted.

"Yes, if you get married after dinner when he's drunk."

"Oh, well, what of it? You're not so clever as what you make out to be."

"That's quite right," said Jenny, lapsing into a gloom of introspection.

Lying awake that night in the bewilderment of a new experience, the
image of Jack Danby recurred to her like the pale image of a sick dream
at once repulsive and perilously attractive. Time after time she would
drive him from her mind, but as fast as he was banished, his slim face
would obtrude itself from another quarter. He would peep from behind the
musty curtains, he would take form in the wavering gray shadow thrown
upon the ceiling by the gas. He would slide round pictures and
materialize from the heap of clothes on the wicker arm-chair by the
bed.

One other image could have contended with him; but that image had been
finally exorcised by six months of mental discipline. All that was left
of Maurice was the fire he had kindled, the fire of passion that, lying
dormant since his desertion, wa