a touchy temper before dinner had
soothed him, nothing was said to him of the latest development of his
sister's affairs until late in the evening; he was allowed to suppose
that Reardon's departure for the seaside had taken place a day sooner
than had been arranged.

Behind the dining-room was a comfortable little chamber set apart as
John's sanctum; here he smoked and entertained his male friends, and
contemplated the portraits of those female ones who would not have been
altogether at their ease in Mrs Yule's drawing-room. Not long after
dinner his mother and sister came to talk with him in this retreat.

With some nervousness Mrs Yule made known to him what had taken place.
Amy, the while, stood by the table, and glanced over a magazine that she
had picked up.

'Well, I see nothing to be surprised at,' was John's first remark. 'It
was pretty certain he'd come to this. But what I want to know is, how
long are we to be at the expense of supporting Amy and her youngster?'

This was practical, and just what Mrs Yule had expected from her son.

'We can't consider such things as that,' she replied. 'You don't wish, I
suppose, that Amy should go and live in a back street at Islington, and
be hungry every other day, and soon have no decent clothes?'

'I don't think Jack would be greatly distressed,' Amy put in quietly.

'This is a woman's way of talking,' replied John. 'I want to know what
is to be the end of it all? I've no doubt it's uncommonly pleasant for
Reardon to shift his responsibilities on to our shoulders. At this rate
I think I shall get married, and live beyond my means until I can hold
out no longer, and then hand my wife over to her relatives, with my
compliments. It's about the coolest business that ever came under my
notice.'

'But what is to be done?' asked Mrs Yule. 'It's no use talking
sarcastically, John, or making yourself disagreeable.'

'We are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty. The fact of
the matter is, Reardon must get a decent berth. Somebody or other must
pitch him into the kind of place that suits men who can do nothing in
particular. Carter ought to be able to help, I should think.'

'You know very well,' said Amy, 'that places of that kind are not to be
had for the asking. It may be years before any such opportunity offers.'

'Confound the fellow! Why the deuce doesn't he go on with his
novel-writing? There's plenty of money to be made out of novels.'

'But he c