stood
there listening, Mary came out, and said in a low voice:

'There's a tap at the window.'

'No!--You must have been mistaken.'

'I'm sure it was a tap on the glass.'

She withdrew to the back sitting-room, and Nancy, with quick step, went
to open the house-door. A great gust of wind forced it against her as
soon as she turned the handle; standing firm, she peeped into darkness.

'Any one there?'

'No enemy but winter and rough weather,' chanted a familiar voice.

'Why, what brings you here, frightening lone women at this time of
night? Shut and lock the door for me. The house will be blown out of the
windows.'

Nancy retreated to her parlour, and stood there in an attitude of joyous
expectation. Without hurry Tarrant hung up his coat and hat in the
passage, then came forward, wiping rain from his moustache. Their eyes
met in a smile, frank and confident.

'Why have you come, Lionel?'

'No reason in particular. The fancy took me. Am I unwelcome?'

For answer, his wife's arms were thrown about him. A lovers' meeting,
with more of tenderness, and scarcely less of warmth, than when Nancy
knocked at the door in Staple Inn.

'Are you hungry?'

'Only for what you have given me.'

'Some tea, then, after that wretched journey.'

'No. How's the boy?'

He drew her upon his knee, and listened laughingly whilst the newest
marvels of babyhood were laughingly related.

'Anything from Horace?'

'Not a word. He must be in London now; I shall write tomorrow.'

Tarrant nodded carelessly. He had the smallest interest in his wife's
brother, but could not help satisfaction in the thought that Horace
was to be reputably, and even brilliantly, married. From all he knew
of Horace, the probability had seemed that his marriage would be some
culmination of folly.

'I think you have something to tell me,' Nancy said presently, when her
hand had been fondled for a minute or two.

'Nothing much, but good as far as it goes. Bunbury has asked me to write
him an article every week for the first six months of '90. Column and a
half, at two guineas a column.'

'Three guineas a week.'

'O rare head!'

'So there's no anxiety for the first half of next year, at all events,'
said Nancy, with a sigh of relief.

'I think I can count on a margin of fifty pounds or so by
midsummer--towards the debt, of course.'

Nancy bit her lip in vexation, but neither made nor wished to make any
protest. Only a week or two ago, since en