muslin round her withered throat made him shiver. He thought once, in one mad moment, how swiftly he could strangle the lingering life out of her. Her hands with the loose dry skin and the bloodless fingers and wrists that were always cold, as if the fire in them were going out, sent a thrill of horror through his frame when she touched him. The mere sound of her footstep, the touch of her black dress as she passed him by, insensibly made him draw back. He had played a daring game, but he had an awful punishment. He lived a brooding secret life, full of dread and alertness lest shame should overtake him, and his heart was not less miserable because it was incapable of generosity or goodness. * * * * * At last it became a matter of shillings. “You had better go to London, Anne,” he said, “and borrow some money.” “Of whom am I to borrow it?” she asked. “Florence and Walter are at Monte Carlo.” “Walter is very selfish,” he answered; “I nursed him through an illness, years ago, at the risk of my own life.” “I know how tender your heart is, dear Alfred.” “I believe he resents my having borrowed some money from him once or twice. He forgets that if he were not in a much better position than I am he couldn’t have lent it.” “Of course he could not, my love,” she said, agreeing with him, as a matter not merely of course but of loyalty and affection. He gave one of his little gulps. “We can’t go on staying here, unless we have enough to eat; I cannot, at any rate. You must get some money. You had better go to London.” He looked at her fixedly, and she knew that he wanted to get rid of her for a space. “Go to London, my love?” she echoed, almost humbly. “Yes, to get money.” “Alfred,” she asked, “how am I to get money? We disposed of everything that was available before we came here.” “You must borrow it; perhaps you can go and persuade my uncle to let you have some.” “If you would let me tell him that I am your wife,” she pleaded. “I forbid you telling him,” he said shortly. “But you might ask him to advance your quarter’s allowance.” “I might write and request him to do that, without going to town.” “No. It is easy to refuse in a letter, and he must not refuse.” “But if he will not listen to me, Alfred?” she asked, watching him curiously. “Tell him that Sir William Rammage is your cousin, and that he has no right to refuse.” “But if he does?” she persisted. “Then you must get it elsewhere. There are those people you stayed with in Cornwall Gardens.” She looked up quickly. “I cannot go to Mrs. North,” she said firmly. “There are some things due to my own self-respect: I cannot forget them even for you.” “You can do as you like,” he answered. “If you cannot get money, I must go away.” “Go away!” she echoed, with alarm; he saw his advantage and followed it up. “I shall not stay here to be starved,” he repeated.