"We walk--and he rides on our money," she interrupted excitedly. "Oh, it's rich--it's rich. If it wasn't so maddening, it'd be just absurd. Look here--!" Her voice grew sharper, more restrained--there was a touch of contempt in it now. "You spend half your time doing things for people who don't give a damn about you or what becomes of you. You give up your seat on the street-car to _hogs_, and come home too dead tired to even _move_. You're on all sorts of committees that take at least an hour a day out of your business and you don't get a cent out of them. You're--eternally--being _used_! I won't stand it! I thought I married a man--not a professional Samaritan who's going to fetch and carry for the world!" As she finished her invective Jaqueline reeled suddenly and sank into a chair--nervously exhausted. "Just at this time," she went on brokenly, "I need you. I need your strength and your health and your arms around me. And if you--if you just give it to _every_ one, it's spread _so_ thin when it reaches me----" He knelt by her side, moving her tired young head until it lay against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jaqueline," he said humbly, "I'll be more careful. I didn't realize what I was doing." "You're the dearest person in the world," murmured Jaqueline huskily, "but I want all of you and the best of you for me." He smoothed her hair over and over. For a few minutes they rested there silently, having attained a sort of Nirvana of peace and understanding. Then Jaqueline reluctantly raised her head as they were interrupted by the voice of Miss Clancy in the doorway. "Oh, I beg your pardon." "What is it?" "A boy's here with some boxes. It's C.O.D." Mather rose and followed Miss Clancy into the outer office. "It's fifty dollars." He searched his wallet--he had omitted to go to the bank that morning. "Just a minute," he said abstractedly. His mind was on Jaqueline, Jaqueline who seemed forlorn in her trouble, waiting for him in the other room. He walked into the corridor, and opening the door of "Clayton and Drake, Brokers" across the way, swung wide a low gate and went up to a man seated at a desk. "Morning, Fred," said Mather. Drake, a little man of thirty with pince-nez and bald head, rose and shook hands. "Morning, Jim. What can I do for you?" "Why, a boy's in my office with some stuff C.O.D. and I haven't a cent. Can you let me have fifty till this afternoon?" Drake looked closely at Mather. Then, slowly and startlingly, he shook his head--not up and down but from side to side. "Sorry, Jim," he answered stiffly, "I've made a rule never to make a personal loan to anybody on any conditions. I've seen it break up too many friendships." "What?"