Perhaps he meant that Dot should have a look at him, for his face shone with an--alas!--not unwonted excitement. Dorothy had seen that shining before. It usually meant that he had been let in on the ground floor of the International Syndicate for the manufacture of pig-spears, or had secured an option on the world's supply of wooden pips for blackberry jam, or an agency for a synthesized champagne. And she never dashed the perennial hopefulness of it. The poor old boy would have been heartbroken had he been allowed to suppose that he was not, in intent at any rate, supporting his wife and children. "What is it, old girl?" he said. "Just feeling low, eh? Never mind. I've some news for you." Dorothy summoned what interest she could,-- "Not an agency or anything?" she asked, wiping her eyes. "Better than that." "Well, some agencies are very good." "Not as good as this!" "Put your arm round me. I've been feeling _so_ wretched!" "Come and sit here. There. Wretched, eh? Well, would three hundred a year cheer you up any?" It would have, very considerably; but Stan's schemes were seldom estimated to produce a sum less than that. "Eh?" Stan continued. "Paid weekly or monthly, whichever I like, and a month's screw to be going on with?" Suddenly Dorothy straightened herself in his arms. She knew that Stan was trying to rouse her, but he needn't use a joke with quite so sharp a barb. She sank back again. "Don't, dear," she begged. "I know it's stupid of me, but I'm so dull to-day. You go out somewhere this evening, and I'll go to bed early and sleep it off. I shall be all right again in the morning." But from the pocket into which she herself had put four half-crowns that very morning--all she could spare--Stan drew out a large handful of silver, with numerous pieces of gold sticking up among it. A glance told her that Stan was not likely to have backed a winner at any such price as that. Other people did, but not Stan. She had turned a little pale. "Tell me, quick, Stan!" she gasped. "You laughed rather at the Fortune & Brooks idea, didn't you?" "Oh, don't joke, darling!----" "Eh?... I say, you're upset. Anything been happening to-day? Look here, let me get you a drink or something!" "Do you mean--you've got a job, Stan?" "Rather!--I say, do let me get you a drink----" "I shall faint if you don't tell me----" She probably would.... Stan had got a job. What was it, this job that had enabled Stan to come home, before he had lifted a finger to earn it, with masses of silver in his pocket, and the clean quids sticking up out of the lump like almonds out of a trifle?