"For a week," he finished without a pause.

She clapped her hands to her face.

He came up quite close, and took hold of her wrists gently. She felt his
breath on her ear.

"It's a scrape I am in--this, and it is you that must see me through."
He was trying to uncover her face. She resisted. He let her go then, and
stepping back a little, "Have you got any money?" he asked. "I must be
off now."

She nodded quickly her shamefaced head, and he waited, looking away from
her, while, trembling all over and bowing her neck, she tried to find
the pocket of her dress.

"Here it is!" she whispered. "Oh, go away! go away for God's sake! If I
had more--more--I would give it all to forget--to make you forget."

He extended his hand. "No fear! I haven't forgotten a single one of you
in the world. Some gave me more than money--but I am a beggar now--and
you women always had to get me out of my scrapes."

He swaggered up to the parlour window, and in the dim light filtering
through the blind, looked at the coin lying in his palm. It was a
half-sovereign. He slipped it into his pocket. She stood a little on
one side, with her head drooping, as if wounded; with her arms hanging
passive by her side, as if dead.

"You can't buy me in," he said, "and you can't buy yourself out."