'Phoebe--old Morrison's offered to lend me some money.'

Phoebe started.

'I--I thought perhaps he had.'

'And he wants me to go to London at once.'

'You've _got_ the money?'

'In my pocket'--he laid his hand upon it. Then he laughed: 'He didn't
pay me for the portrait, though. That's like him. And of course I
couldn't ask for it.'

A silence.

Fenwick turned round and took one of her hands.

'Well, little woman, what do you think? Are you going to let me go and
make my fortune?--our fortune?'

'As if I could stop you!' she said, hoarsely. 'It's what you've wanted
for months.'

[Illustration: _Husband and Wife_]

'Well, and if I have, where's the harm? We can't go on living like
this!'

And he began to talk, with great rapidity, about the absurdity of