of work twice over.

Jona.

Should he, or shouldn't he? He knew that he shouldn't. Mabel would not
like it. He ought to put Jona out of his mind, and to burn those
stamps. But that was not economical. It was possible to have thirty
stamps, and yet to avoid writing thirty love-letters to Jona. He
folded them up and put them back in his pocket.

What was it he had come up to do? He remembered. Mabel had asked him a
question. He ran downstairs and rejoined her.

"Because of the season ticket," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you asked me why I couldn't go by train. I could get a season
ticket, but I should lose it the first day. Then they fine you forty
shillings, and make you buy another. And that would go on, and on, and
on until I was bankrupt and a beggar. And we should have to go down
the High Street together, singing hymns. And you never did have any
voice, and----"

"Oh, that'll do," said Mabel, wearily.

"Look here," he said, brightly, "I've brought you a present, Mabel. I
think you will find these useful."

He produced the postage stamps from his pocket.

"Just a few stamps," he said.

"All right," said Mabel, not taking them. "Stick them down anywhere."

"They should be stuck down in the top right-hand corner," he said;
"but I leave it all entirely to you."

He went out. She had not even thanked him.

CHAPTER VIII

Effie Vessunt remained at Jawbones for a fortnight. At the end of that
time Dot's knee had, so to speak, submitted and returned to barracks,
and she could resume her ordinary work. Effie went to Bournemouth,
where she took a position as kennel maid.

Luke heard nothing from Jona. Occasionally he saw her name in the
newspaper as one of those present at some social function. Twice he
read that her husband had been fined for being drunk while driving a
motor-car. Beyond this, nothing. Luke adhered to his resolution. He
never sent her a letter. He wrote one. It was a long and passionate
letter, full of poetry and beauty. But he never posted it.

He made a paper boat of it. And launched it on that old-world stream.
It floated away under the bridge, and on and on for nearly twenty
yards. Then an old-world cow came down to the edge of the stream and
ate it. The cow died.

And so the months passed away. He completed another little monograph
for the firm entitled "Pulp," of which he said beautifully that it was
the beginning of all jam and the end of all books. Then he reme