mistakable figures. Reardon said to himself
that it was all over with his profession of authorship. The book could
not possibly succeed even to the point of completing his hundred pounds;
it would meet with universal contempt, and indeed deserved nothing
better.

'Shall you accept this?' asked Amy, after dreary silence.

'No one else would offer terms as good.'

'Will they pay you at once?'

'I must ask them to.'

Well, it was seventy-five pounds in hand. The cheque came as soon as
it was requested, and Reardon's face brightened for the moment. Blessed
money! root of all good, until the world invent some saner economy.

'How much do you owe your mother?' he inquired, without looking at Amy.

'Six pounds,' she answered coldly.

'And five to Carter; and rent, twelve pounds ten. We shall have a matter
of fifty pounds to go on with.'

CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE

The prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's failing
to suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be paying a rent
of fifty pounds when a home could be found for half the money was
recklessness; there would be no difficulty in letting the flat for this
last year of their lease, and the cost of removal would be trifling. The
mental relief of such a change might enable him to front with courage
a problem in any case very difficult, and, as things were, desperate.
Three months ago, in a moment of profoundest misery, he had proposed
this step; courage failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voice
were too vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrifice
for his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility of
whatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up appearances?

Between him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her silence
meant reproach, and--whatever might have been the case before--there was
no doubt that she now discussed him with her mother, possibly with other
people. It was not likely that she concealed his own opinion of the book
he had just finished; all their acquaintances would be prepared to greet
its publication with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the
head. His feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of
his love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the same
time that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from representing
the truth began to affect his manner and speech, and Amy did not seem
to notice it