“One thing’s clear—a thousand’s the rock-bottom figure. I must make up my mind to that. Under a thousand a year it can’t be done. It _could_ be, of course. We shouldn’t _starve_ on five hundred. But . . . No, a thousand’s the lowest possible. With a thousand I could temper the wind. Unless Grey Ruby comes up and unless I can get thirty-threes . . . “What’s the alternative? The alternative’s plain hell—for me, any way. I suppose I can plough through, but face it I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t—can’t pretend to . . . if she was in love with Persimmon, if she was going to be happy—happier than with me—well, I could stomach that. As it is . . . I don’t know why I didn’t see it that night at Breathless. I came pretty near, too. I said we’d defied Nature. But for some fool’s reason I assumed the adhesions could be torn. That that was further defiance I never saw. I suppose I was exalted, drunk with a sort of heroism. That’s all right to die on, because you’re dead before it wears off. You can take a life-sentence with a laugh: but you don’t laugh much when you’re in prison, and after the first month. . . . “The point is I may _have_ to go on. No, it isn’t. The point is I may have a chance—a chance of being happy and making her happy too. I wish to God she and I could thrash this out. But that’s impossible. For one thing, her opinion’s valueless. Whether she’d be happy, poor, she hasn’t the faintest idea. And so I’ve got to decide for both of us. . . . “‘Got to decide’? The point mayn’t ever arise. Unless she makes a move, everything goes by the board. And as like as not she won’t. . . . Well, then—finish. If she can get through, I must. She’s free to change her mind, but I can’t do another man down. I can’t reopen things. That’s plain. Heaven or burning hell, my mouth’s shut and locked, unless and until she speaks. If she says she can’t go on, an’ if . . .” He passed to the open window and stood looking down upon the fading street and men as trees walking and lamps beginning to come into their own. After a little he laughed. “I’ve lost my balance, I think—leapin’ about like this before I come to the ditch. The first thing I’ve got to do is to raise the wind.” He sat down then and there and acknowledged his cheque. Then he rough-hewed the themes of another two tales. Finally, he retired—to lie awake until dawn. That morning he visited a firm of bookmakers. Grey Ruby, however, was being mentioned. They would not lay him more than twenty-five sovereigns to one. After a little reflection, Simon wrote them a cheque for four hundred pounds—an act which reduced his balance to eleven pounds ten. * * * * * Goodwood was looking superb.