ied the secretary, and
roared at his joke. It put him into a better temper than ever, and he
said at length: 'I suppose a fiver wouldn't be much use?--For a month,
you say?--I might manage a fiver, I think.'

'It would be very useful. But on no account if----'

'No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a
cheque?'

'I'm ashamed----'

'Not a bit of it! I'll go and write the cheque.'

Reardon's face was burning. Of the conversation that followed when
Carter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The bit of
paper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street again, he all
but threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it was a 'bus ticket or
a patent medicine bill.

He reached home much after the dinner-hour. Amy was surprised at his
long absence.

'Got anything?' she asked.

'Yes.'

It was half his intention to deceive her, to say that the publishers had
advanced him five pounds. But that would be his first word of untruth
to Amy, and why should he be guilty of it? He told her all that had
happened. The result of this frankness was something that he had not
anticipated; Amy exhibited profound vexation.

'Oh, you SHOULDN'T have done that!' she exclaimed. 'Why didn't you come
home and tell me? I would have gone to mother at once.'

'But does it matter?'

'Of course it does,' she replied sharply. 'Mr Carter will tell his wife,
and how pleasant that is?'

'I never thought of that. And perhaps it wouldn't have seemed to me so
annoying as it does to you.'

'Very likely not.'

She turned abruptly away, and stood at a distance in gloomy muteness.

'Well,' she said at length, 'there's no helping it now. Come and have
your dinner.'

'You have taken away my appetite.'

'Nonsense! I suppose you're dying of hunger.'

They had a very uncomfortable meal, exchanging few words. On Amy's face
was a look more resembling bad temper than anything Reardon had ever
seen there. After dinner he went and sat alone in the study. Amy did
not come near him. He grew stubbornly angry; remembering the pain he had
gone through, he felt that Amy's behaviour to him was cruel. She must
come and speak when she would.

At six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would
come to tea.

'Thank you,' he replied, 'I had rather stay here.'

'As you please.'

And he sat alone until about nine. It was only then he recollected that
he must send a note to the publishers, calling