smiling.

"Of course," she answered. "Everyone who is good to me gets on and those
who are horrid come to grief. I've seen it, lots of times." She spoke
seriously, with an air of conviction.

"Well, I hope you're right." Jimmy sighed. He had not sold any
manuscript for several days, and was feeling distinctly worried about
the future. His original capital had dwindled down to a few shillings,
despite Lalage's careful management, and, so far, he had not been paid
for any of his work. Already, the need of money was crippling him,
robbing him of his powers of imagination, and by that hideous perversity
of effect which every writer knows to his cost, making him do less
instead of the more he longed to produce.

Lalage, ever an optimist, did her best to cheer him up and to assist
him, searching the papers for news items which might form the basis of
an article, counting the number of words in his manuscripts to see they
did not exceed the regulation column length, and even copying out his
rough notes in her clear, bold handwriting.

"I wish you could get a typewriter machine, Jimmy," she remarked. "I'm
sure your stuff would have a better chance, and I could soon learn to
use the thing. Other girls do, so I'm sure I can."

"They cost a lot of money," Jimmy answered, rather wearily.

Lalage tossed her head. "You can get them on the hire-purchase system. I
believe you think I should get tired of it, you old silly. Now don't
you?"

The man stooped down and kissed her. "I don't think anything of the
kind. I know you're a brick, only----." He broke off with a sigh, then,
"I'm going down to the club, to see if I can find Kelly. I must do
something before we get in a fix."

She looked up at him anxiously. "Will you be long, dear? And do be
careful, won't you? You walk through the traffic as if it wasn't there,
unless you have me to look after you."

When he had gone out, she sat for a long time, very still, staring into
the fire. Already, she was getting a little afraid. Twice, Jimmy had
gone down to the club in the vain hope of hearing of something to do or
picking up some useful hints, and each time he had returned a little
flushed and inclined to be apologetic. Lalage did not blame him, even in
her own mind. It was inevitable, she told herself, after all he had been
through, to the strain of which was now added the anxiety of the
present. She did not blame him, but at the same time, as she glanced
round her little home