She looked at him again--a keen look which seemed to get into Roland's
soul and walk about it with a searchlight. Then, as if satisfied by the
inspection, she spoke.

"No, I don't think there is," she said. "Unless you happen to be the
proprietor of a weekly paper with a Woman's Page, and need an editress
for it."

"I don't understand."

"Well, that's all any one could do for me--give me back my work or give
me something else of the same sort."

"Oh, have you lost your job?"

"I have. So would you mind going away, because I want to go on crying,
and I do it better alone. You won't mind my turning you out, I hope,
but I was here first, and there are heaps of other benches."

"No, but wait a minute. I want to hear about this. I might be able--what
I mean is--think of something. Tell me all about it."

There is no doubt that the possession of two hundred and fifty thousand
pounds tones down a diffident man's diffidence. Roland began to feel
almost masterful.

"Why should I?"

"Why shouldn't you?"