“No! I can't instruct you. My affairs are in your hands. But I must _say_--” She bit her lip, however, and did not say it. On the contrary she asked, rather feebly, “Is there nothing due on anything?” “I went over it with you, last month,” said Atherton patiently, “and explained all the investments. I could sell some stocks, but this election trouble has disordered everything, and I should have to sell at a heavy loss. There are your mortgages, and there are your bonds. You can have any amount of money you want, but you will have to borrow it.” “And that you know I won't do. There should always be a sum of money in the bank,” said Clara decidedly. “I do my very best to keep a sum there, knowing your theory; but your practice is against me. You draw too many checks,” said Atherton, laughing. “Very well!” cried the lady, pulling down her veil. “Then I'm to have nothing?” “You won't allow yourself to have anything,” Atherton began. But she interrupted him haughtily. “It is certainly very odd that my affairs should be in such a state that I can't have all the money of my own that I want, whenever I want it.” Atherton's thin face paled a little more than usual. “I shall be glad to resign the charge of your affair Miss Kingsbury.” “And I shall accept your resignation,” cried Clara, magnificently, “whenever you offer it.” She swept out of the office, and descended to her coupé like an incensed goddess. She drew the curtains and began to cry. At her door, she bade the servant deny her to everybody, and went to bed, where she was visited a little later by Olive Halleck, whom no ban excluded. Clara lavishly confessed her sin and sorrow. “Why, I _went_ there, more than half, to sympathize with him about Ben; I don't need any money, just yet; and the first thing I knew, I was accusing him of neglecting my interests, and I don't know what all! Of course he had to say he wouldn't have anything more to do with them, and I should have despised him if he hadn't. And now I don't care what becomes of the property: it's never been anything but misery to me ever since I had it, and I always knew it would get me into trouble sooner or later.” She whirled her face over into her pillow, and sobbed, “But I _didn't_ suppose it would ever make me insult and outrage the best friend I ever had,--and the truest man,--and the noblest gentleman! Oh, _what_ will he think of me?” Olive remained sadly quiet, as if but superficially interested in these transports, and Clara lifted her face again to say in her handkerchief, “It's a shame, Olive, to burden you with all this at a time when you've care enough of your own.” “Oh, I'm rather glad of somebody else's care; it helps to take my mind off,” said Olive. “Then what would you do?” asked Clara, tempted by the apparent sympathy with her in the effect of her naughtiness. “You might make a party for him, Clara,” suggested Olive, with lack-lustre irony.