"Four pounds ten per week?" Mrs. Barnes exclaimed, laying down her
knife and fork.

"Certainly," Mr. Fitzgerald answered. "After Christmas, I have
some reason to believe that it may be five pounds."

Mr. Barnes whistled softly, and looked at the young man with a new
respect.

"I told you that - Mr. - that Spencer was doing pretty well, Mother,"
Maud simpered, looking down at her plate.

"Any one to support?" her father asked, transferring a pickle from
the fork to his mouth.

"No one," Mr. Fitzgerald answered. "In fact, I may say that I have
some small expectations. I haven't done badly, either, out of the
few investments I have made from time to time."

"Saved a bit of money, eh?" Mr. Barnes enquired genially.

"I have a matter of four hundred pounds put by," Mr. Fitzgerald
admitted modestly, "besides a few sticks of furniture. I never
cared much about lodging-house things, so I furnished a couple of
rooms myself some time ago."

Mrs. Barnes rose slowly to her feet.

"You are quite sure you won't have a small piece more of beef?" she