ner.

"When I say forget, I mean forget," he declared. "I don't want to be
reminded by you of my own business. D'ye think I don't know it?"

"I am very sure that you do, sir," the clerk answered humbly. "I quite
see that my allusion was an error."

Scarlett Trent had turned round in his chair, and was eying the pale,
nervous figure with a certain hard disapproval.

"That's a beastly coat you've got on, Dickenson," he said. "Why don't
you get a new one?"

"I am standing in a strong light, sir," the young man answered, with a
new fear at his heart. "It wants brushing, too. I will endeavour to get
a new one--very shortly."

His employer grunted again.

"What's your salary?" he asked.

"Two pounds fifteen shillings a week, sir."

"And you mean to say that you can't dress respectably on that? What do
you do with your money, eh? How do you spend it? Drink and music-halls,
I suppose!"

The young man was able at last to find some spark of dignity. A pink
spot burned upon his cheeks.

"I do not attend music-halls, sir, nor have I touched wine or spirits
for years. I--I have a wife to keep, and perhaps--I am expecting--"

He stopped abruptly. How could he mention that other matter which, for
all its anxieties, still possessed for him a sort of quickening joy in
the face of that brutal stare. He did not conclude his sentence, the
momentary light died out of his pale commonplace features. He hung his
head and was silent.

"A wife," Scarlett Trent repeated with contempt, "and all the rest of it
of course. Oh, what poor donkeys you young men are! Here are you, with
your way to make in the world, with your foot scarcely upon the bottom
rung of the ladder, grubbing along on a few bob a week, and you choose
to go and chuck away every chance you ever might have for a moment's
folly. A poor, pretty face I suppose. A moonlight walk on a Bank
Holiday, a little maudlin sentiment, and over you throw all your chances
in life. No wonder the herd is so great, and the leaders so few," he
added, with a sneer.

The young man raised his head. Once more the pink spot was burning. Yet
how hard to be dignified with the man from whom comes one's daily bread.

"You are mistaken, sir," he said. "I am quite happy and quite
satisfied."

Scarlett Trent laughed scornfully.

"Then you don't look it," he exclaimed.

"I may not, sir," the young man continued, with a desperate courage,
"but I am. After all happiness is spelt with different