rce support herself on the chair, timidly met these
glances, but as yet no word was spoken.

"Why haven't you eaten anything?" asked Dyce at length, breaking the
silence with a voice which was almost natural.

"I have, dear."

"Yes, a bit of bread. Come, eat! You'll be ill if you don't."

She tried to obey. Tears began to trickle down her face.

"What's the use of going on like that?" Lashmar exclaimed, petulantly
rather than in anger. "You're tired to death. If you really can't eat
anything, better go to bed. We shall see how things look in the
morning."

Iris rose and came towards him.

"Thank you, dear, for speaking so kindly. I don't deserve it."

"Oh, we won't say anything about that," he replied, with an air of
generosity. Then, laughing, "Aren't you going to show me the study?"

"Dyce! I haven't the heart."

She began to weep in earnest.

"Nonsense! Let us go and look at it. I'll carry the lamp."

They left the room, and Iris, struggling with her tears, led the way to
the study door. As he entered Dyce gave an exclamation of pleasure. The
little room was furnished and adorned very tastefully; hook-shelves,
with all Lashmar's own books carefully arranged, and many new volumes
added, made a pleasant show; a handsome writing-table and chair seemed
to invite to penwork.

"I could have done something here," Dyce remarked, with a nodding of
the head.

Iris came nearer. Timidly she laid a hand upon his shoulder;
appealingly she gazed into his face.

"Dear"--it was a just audible whisper--"you are so clever--you are so
far above ordinary men--"

Lashmar smiled. His arm fell lightly about her waist. "We have still
nearly two hundred pounds a year," the whisper continued. "There's
Len--but I must take him from school--"

"Pooh! We'll talk about that."

A cry of gratitude escaped her.

"Dyce! How good you are! How bravely you hear it, my own dear husband.
I'll do anything, anything! We needn't have a servant. I'll work--I
don't care anything if you still love me. Say you still love me!"

He kissed her hair.

"It's certain I don't hate you.--Well, we'll see how things look
to-morrow. Who knows? It may be the real beginning of my career!"

End of Project Gutenberg's Our Friend the Charlatan, by George Gissing

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR FRIEND THE CHARLATAN ***

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