ung idiot with money," I replied bitterly,
pleased with the effect I had produced. "Vane had told her a pack of
lies. When she found out I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced,
without a sixpence---" I made a gesture expressive of eloquent contempt
for female nature generally.

"I am sorry," said Norah; "I told you you would fall in love with
something real."

Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. "In love!" I replied;
"good God, I was never in love with her!"

"Then why did you nearly run away with her?"

I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter; it promised to be
difficult of explanation. "I don't know," I replied irritably. "I
thought she was in love with me. She was very beautiful--at least, other
people seemed to think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. You
must live--understand life, before you can teach it to others. When a
beautiful woman is in love with you--or pretends to be, you--you must
say something. You can't stand like a fool and--"

Again her laughter interrupted me; this time she made no attempt to
hide it. The sparrows chirped angrily, and flew off to continue their
conversation somewhere where there would be less noise.

"You are the biggest baby, Paul," she said, so soon as she could speak,
"I ever heard of." She seized me by the shoulders, and turned me round.
"If you weren't looking so ill and miserable, I would shake you, Paul,
till there wasn't a bit of breath left in your body."

"How much money do you owe?" she asked--"to the people in the company
and anybody else, I mean--roughly?"

"About a hundred and fifty pounds," I answered.

"Then if you rest day or night, Paul, till you have paid that hundred
and fifty--every penny of it--I'll think you the meanest cad in London!"

Her grey eyes were flashing quite alarmingly. I felt almost afraid of
her. She could be so vehement at times.

"But how can I?" I asked.

"Go straight home," she commanded, "and write something funny: an
article, story--anything you like; only mind that it is funny. Post it
to me to-morrow, at the latest. Dan is in London, editing a new weekly.
I'll have it copied out and sent to him. I shan't say who it is from. I
shall merely ask him to read it and reply, at once. If you've a grain
of grit left in you, you'll write something that he will be glad to have
and to pay for. Pawn that ring on your finger and get yourself a
good breakfast"--it was my mother's wedding-ring, the only pi