ast! You have not
spent a penny on yourself for goodness knows how long."

"Goose!" cried Edith. "He has swallowed it at a gulp. Three guineas,
indeed--as if I dare! Four and eleven-pence three-farthings in Edgware
Road, and my old lace veil, and one of the paste buttons you gave me at
Christmas, and some roses off last year's hat, and Margot's clever
fingers, and my--pretty face! Do you think I am pretty still?"

"I should rather think I do!" Jack framed his wife's face in his hands,
stooping to kiss the soft flushed cheeks as fondly as he had done in the
time of that other lace-wreathed hat six years before. Pat and Jim
returned to their dominoes, bored by such foolish proceedings on the
part of their parents, while Margot covered her face with her hands,
with ostentatious propriety.

"This is no place for me! Consider my feelings, Jack. I'm like a story
I once read in an old volume of _Good Words_, `Lovely yet Unloved!'
When you have quite finished love-making, I want a private chat with
you, while Edie puts the boys to bed. They will hate me for suggesting
such a thing, but it is already past their hour, and I must have ten
minutes' talk on a point of life and death!"

"Come away, boys; we are not wanted here. Daddy will come upstairs and
see you again before you go to sleep."

Mother and sons departed together, and Jack Martin sat down on the
corner of the sofa and leant his head on his hand. With his wife's
departure the light went out of his face, but he smiled at his sister-
in-law with an air of affectionate _camaraderie_.

"You are a little brick, Margot! You have done Edie a world of good.
What can I do for you in return? I am at your service."

Margot pulled forward the chair that her sister had chosen as the least
lumpy which the room afforded, and seated herself before him, returning
his glance with an odd mixture of mischief and embarrassment.

"It's about Ron. The year of probation is nearly over."

"I know it."

"Two months more will decide whether he is to be a broker or a poet. It
will mean death to Ronald to be sent into the City."

"You are wrong there. If he is a poet, no amount of brokering will
alter the fact, any more than it will change the colour of his eyes or
hair. It is bound to come out sooner or later. You will probably think
me a brute, if I suggest that a little discipline and knowledge of the
world might improve the value of his writings."

"Yes, I will