“Perhaps you will see me to-morrow,” he answered. “Can you give me something to eat? I wish you would make a decent fire.” “I will, my dear one. If you will rest here patiently for a few minutes, I will go downstairs and ask the landlady to let me have some coals.” “I have no money,” he said sullenly; “understand that.” “But I have, my darling,” she answered joyfully; “and I am quite sure you require nourishment. Will you let me go out and buy you a chop?” “Give me some tea. I can get dinner on my way back.” “Won’t you stay with me this evening, Alfred? I have some news for you, and I have been so lonely.” She looked round the shabby room, as if to prove to him how impossible it was to find comfort in it. “No, I can’t stay,” he answered shortly. “How much money have you got?” “I have a sovereign. Walter slipped it into my glove just now. I have been to see them both, Alfred.” “What did they say about me?” “They spoke of you most kindly, my darling,” she answered, and winked very timidly. “Why couldn’t he give you more? A sovereign isn’t much,” Wimple said discontentedly. “I see Rammage is not coming back from Cannes just yet,” he added. “My dear,” she said gravely, “you are fatigued with your journey, and hungry, and I know you are anxious. If you will excuse me a moment, I will make some little preparations for your comfort.” And, with the dignity that always sat so quaintly upon her, she rose from the rug and left the room. She returned in a few minutes, followed by the landlady with a scuttleful of coals. Then she made some tea, and cut some bread and butter, and set it before Alfred Wimple, all the time putting off, nervously, the telling of her great bit of news. She looked at him while he ate and drank, and her face showed that she was not looking at the actual man before her, but at some one she had endowed with a dozen beauties of heart and soul: she wished he could realize that he possessed them; they might have given him patience and made him happier. “Did you enjoy the country?” she asked gently. “Yes”—he coughed uneasily—“but I was not well. I shall go there again soon.” “What do you do all day?” she asked. “Have you any society?” He was silent for a moment, as if struggling with the destitution of speech that always beset him. “I can’t give you an account of all my days, Anne,” he said, and turned to the fire. “I did not ask it, Alfred; you know that I never intrude upon your privacy. I had some news,” she went on, with a pathetic note in her voice, “and hoped it would be pleasing to you.” “What is it?” The expression of his face had not changed for a moment from the one of sulky displeasure it had worn when she entered, and her manner betrayed a certain nervousness, as if she felt that he was with her against his will, and only by gentle propitiation could she keep him at all.