.

"May I ask Burton for the bread ticket I lent you on Thursday," she
said--"No one can afford to be generous with them now, can they!"

I was delighted at this. I would have been delighted at anything which
kept her with me an extra minute.

I watched her as she disappeared down towards the Reservoirs with
longing eyes, then I must have dozed for a while, because it was a
quarter to five when I got back to my sitting-room.

And when I was safely in my chair there was a knock on the door, and in
she came--with a cheque-book in her hand. Before I opened it or even
took it up I knew something had happened which had changed her again.

Her manner had its old icy respect as of a person employed, all the
friendliness which had been growing in the last two or three days had
completely departed. I could not imagine why--.

She put the cheque-book open, and handed me a pen to sign with, and then
I signed the dozen that she had filled in, and tore them off as I did
so. She was silent, and when I had finished she took them, saying
casually that she would bring the corrected chapter typed again on
Tuesday, and was now going to catch her train--and before I could reply,
she had gone into the other room--.

A frightful sense of depression fell upon me--What could it possibly
be--?

Idly I picked up the cheque-book--and absently fingered the leaves--then
my eye caught a counterfoil where I had chanced to open it. It was not
in Miss Sharp's handwriting, although this was the house cheque-book
which Burton usually keeps, but in my own and there was written, just
casually as I scribble in my private account.--"For Suzette 5000 francs"
and the date of last Saturday--and on turning the page there was the
further one of "For Suzette 3000 francs" and the date of Monday!!

The irony of fate!--I had picked this cheque-book up inadvertently I
suppose on these two days instead of my own.

X

It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying
circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books--Such things are fate--and
fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own
actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have
given her eight thousand francs--but as she has been--and I did--I must
stand by the consequences.

After all--a man?--Well--what is the use of writing about it. I am so
utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.

It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall h