to talk about Orion just visible
over the shoulder of the cliff. Emmy, whose interests were for the moment
terrestrial, interrupted him:

"There's one thing I want you to see clearly, my dear, and that is that I
owe you a frightful lot of money. But I'm sure to get something to do when
I'm back in London and then I can repay you by instalments. Remember, I'm
not going to rest until I pay you back."

"I sha'n't rest if you do," said Septimus, nervously. "Please don't talk of
it. It hurts me. I've done little enough in the world, God knows. Give me
this chance of--the Buddhists call it 'acquiring merit.'"

This was not a new argument between them. Emmy had a small income under her
father's will, and the prospect of earning a modest salary on the stage.
She reckoned that she would have sufficient to provide for herself and the
child. Hitherto Septimus had been her banker. Neither of them had any
notion of the value of money, and Septimus had a child's faith in the magic
of the drawn check. He would as soon have thought of measuring the portion
of whisky he poured out for a guest as of counting the money he advanced to
Emmy.

She took up his last words, and speaking in a low tone, as a woman does
when her pride has gone from her, she said:

"Haven't you acquired enough merit already, my dear? Don't you see the
impossibility of my going on accepting things from you? You seem to take it
for granted that you're to provide for me and the child for the rest of our
lives. I've been a bad, unprincipled fool of a girl, I know--yes, rotten
bad; there are thousands like me in London--"

Septimus rose to his feet.

"Oh, don't, Emmy, don't! I can't stand it."

She rose too and put her hands on his shoulders.

"You must let me speak to-night--our last night before we part. It isn't
generous of you not to listen."

The yellow dog, disturbed in his slumbers, shook himself, and regarding
them with an air of humble sympathy turned and walked away discreetly into
the shadow. The fisher folk on the jetty still sang their mournful chorus.

"Sit down again."

Septimus yielded. "But why give yourself pain?" he asked gently.

"To ease my heart. The knife does good. Yes, I know I've been worthless.
But I'm not as bad as that. Don't you see how horrible the idea is to me? I
must pay you back the money--and of course not come on you for any more.
You've done too much for me already. It sometimes stuns me to think of it.
It was only b