“Ten thousand a week,” said Titus, “is better than any ideas.” “We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we made?” “Ninety-six thousand—to date.” “For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?” “The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.” Blanche clung to his knees. “Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again, you’ll turn this down.” Cheviot appeared to hesitate. Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table. “How much did you spend in Paris?” Mrs. Cheviot started. “I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.” “Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact, you got away with over five thousand pounds.” “Titus!” Cheviot nodded. “And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking. I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad. But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.” Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair. “I’m at your mercy,” she said. Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room. _In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three thousand pounds a year._ “That’s all,” said Titus. Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature. Then she took a fresh sheet. “I’ll make a copy,” she said. “Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . . When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass. “Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.” Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table. The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer.