“You only wanted it, dear, to spend upon me. And now—you’ve had your wish. Besides, I don’t care a damn. I want to be poor. . . . But, Simon dear, how like you to turn that money down! When he offered to give it back. Only a giant could have done a thing like that. But, then, you are a giant.” “My dear,” said Simon, “I’m the weakest——” “You’re not weak at all,” said Patricia. “Neither am I. We’ve played a splendid game. _It happened to be the wrong one_, but we were so mad to play it that we never saw that. . . . We’re a couple of shorn lambs, Simon—and that’s the truth. We sheared each other that dreadful night at Breathless—and went out into the cold. I was a fool, and you who knew better—you wouldn’t open my eyes. And then the wind blew—a wind like a knife. . . . That was to cure us of our folly. And now the good God has tempered the wind. . . .” “That’s right,” said Simon slowly. “You’ve driven the nail, Pat. We put up a show all right, but we were trying to play an impossible game. It was when I realized that that I decided to put the money on. I didn’t know how you felt, but I wanted to have it ready—in case you moved.” “In case I moved?” said Patricia, knitting her brows. Suddenly she sat up. “D’you mean you’d ’ve waited on me?” “Of course,” said Simon. “Even with the money behind me, I couldn’t ’ve given tongue. I love you better, Pat, than heaven and earth, and I wouldn’t give you up now for fifty rolling worlds—but if you hadn’t spoken I couldn’t have opened my mouth. But then you did speak, lady. You wrote me the sweetest letter that ever—— What is it, Pat?” Patricia put a hand to her head. “This,” she said faintly. “If that letter hadn’t been stolen, it wouldn’t ’ve gone.” “_Pat!_” The girl nodded. “I hadn’t the heart to destroy it: but I’d locked it away and thrown the key into the garden, because—I was so anxious . . . to play the game.” * * * * * Six months had gone by, and Simon Beaulieu had earned three hundred pounds. The little flat at Chartres was becoming a luxurious apartment. Now that the tiles were down, the tiny bathroom alone was a flashing chapel of ease. . . . Sitting at work at his table, Simon looked out of the window with a thankful heart. “I’m one franc out,” murmured Mrs. Beaulieu. Pencil to lip, she regarded the cornice thoughtfully. “Now what did I spend that on?” Her husband surveyed her profile with some emotion. He may be forgiven. Its beauty was really startling. At length— “Cream?” he suggested.