and do neither, look at this!' and she drew a revolver from her pocket.

'They are all loaded,' she added. 'Now, which is it to be?'

Rondel made a movement as if to snatch the weapon from her, but she
sprang back and pointed it at his head.

'If you move, I fire.'

Now one would not need to be a minor poet to be a coward under such
circumstances. Rondel could see that Annette meant what she said. She was
clearly a desperate woman, with no great passion for life. To shoot him
and then herself would be a little thing in the present state of her
feelings. Like most poets, he was a prudent man--he hesitated, leaning
with closed fist upon the table. She stood firm.

'Come,' she said at length, 'which is it to be--the revolver, marriage, or
the money?' She ominously clicked the trigger, 'I give you five minutes.'

It was five minutes to eleven. The clock ticked on while the two still
stood in their absurdly tragic attitudes--he still hesitating, she with
her pistol in line with the brain that laid the golden verse. The clock
whirred before striking the hour. Annette made a determined movement.
Hyacinth looked up; he saw she meant it, all the more for the mocking
indifference of her expression.

'Once more--death, marriage, or the money?'

The clock struck.