“You know I would.” “It was because I was rich that you wouldn’t speak?” “Yes.” “It was the child you wanted to play with—not her toys?” “Yes.” “Why, then your honour is clean. And it’ll always be clean—so long as you’d play with the child if she had no toys. . . . You wouldn’t want me to throw my toys away—I’ve always had them to play with. Yet how d’you think I feel when the child I’ve picked to be my playfellow won’t share my pretty toys?” “I wonder,” said Jeremy slowly, “I wonder whether you’re right. ‘Unto Cæsar.’ You mean I’ve been paying conscience-money—which I never owed?” Eve nodded. The man put her gently aside and began to pace the room. Slight fingers to mouth, Eve watched him, as one watches the flow of a crisis which one is powerless to treat. Her face was calm, and she stood like statuary: only the rise and fall of her breast betrayed her hammering heart. Her brain was straining frantically to perceive the line she would have to take. She had moved him—shaken him plainly. Everything in the world was depending on how she handled the next thing Jeremy said. . . . Suddenly he swung round. “Eve, if I come back, my livelihood’s gone. And I mayn’t be quite so lucky . . . another time.” His wife stood up. “You go too fast, Jeremy. I’ve suffered, you know—most terribly. And I can’t go through it again.” She hesitated. “Before you come back, you must promise . . . to play with my toys.” For a long minute Jeremy stood regarding his wife. Then suddenly he smiled—the smile of a man who has suddenly come upon the truth. He stepped to Eve and put his arms about her. “What a fool I’ve been,” he said. “What a blinking, blear-eyed fool. Of course, it’s partly your fault. You gave me my choice when you had no choice to give.” “What do you mean, Jeremy?” “You asked me which I would marry—the child or the witch or the princess. Well, I couldn’t pick and choose. I had to marry the three—or none at all.” “But——” “Listen. When you’re a child, I’ll play with your pretty toys: when you’re a witch, I’ll—I’ll play with your beautiful hair: and when you’re a princess. . . .” “Yes, yes,”—eagerly. “Why, then,” said Jeremy proudly, “I’ll play the prince.” A glorious smile swept into his darling’s face. “And they lived happily,” she breathed. Jeremy nodded. “Ever after,” he whispered. SIMON SIMON “Oh, Simon dear,” said Patricia, “why aren’t you rich?” “If it comes to that,” said Simon ruefully, “why are you poor? You’ve less excuse than I have. At least, your mother was an American.” “Yes, but she married for love—and got cut off for it. Which is why her poor little girl must marry money.”