erference in John's affairs that seemed to
occupy her thoughts.

'I told you I wouldn't say anything about Ethel's affair,' said John
later, 'and I won't.' He was once more judicial and pompous. 'But, of
course, you will look after it. I shall leave it to you to deal with.
You'll have to be firm, you know.'

'Yes,' she said.

* * * * *

Not till after breakfast the next day did Leonora realise the utter
repugnance with which she shrank from the mission to Uncle Meshach. She
had declined to look the project fairly in the face, to examine her own
feelings concerning it. She had said to herself when she awoke in the
dark: 'It is nothing. It is a mere business matter. It isn't like
begging.' But the idea, the absurd indefensible idea, of its similarity
to begging was precisely what troubled her as the moment approached for
setting forth. She pondered, too, upon the intolerable fact that such a
request as she was about to prefer to Uncle Meshach was a tacit
admission that John, with all his ostentations, had at last come to the
end of the tether. She felt that she was a living part of John's
meretriciousness. She had the fancy that she should have dressed for the
occasion in rusty black. Was it not somehow shameful that she, a
suppliant for financial aid, should outrage the ugly modesty of the
little parlour in Church Street by the arrogant and expensive perfection
of her beautiful skirt and street attire?

Moreover, she would fail.

The morning was fine, and with infantile pusillanimity she began to hope
that Uncle Meshach would be taking his walks abroad. In order to give
him every chance of being out she delayed her departure, upon one
domestic excuse or another, for quite half an hour. 'How silly I am!'
she reflected. But she could not help it, and when she had started down
the hill towards Bursley she felt sick. She had a suspicion that her
feet might of their own accord turn into a by-road and lead her away
from Uncle Meshach's. 'I shall never get there!' she exclaimed. She
called at the fishmonger's in Oldcastle Street, and was delighted
because the shop was full of customers and she had to wait. At last she
was crossing St. Luke's Square and could distinguish Uncle Meshach's
doorway with its antique fanlight. She wished to stop, to turn back, to
run, but her traitorous feet were inexorable. They carried her an
unwilling victim to the house. Uncle Meshach, by some strange accident