Will fidgets on his seat. “I’m afraid, my dear Jack,” he says, “I shall have to get you to renew it, just for a month or two,—deuced awkward thing, but I’m remarkably short of money this year. Truth is, I can’t get what’s owing to myself.” “That’s very awkward, certainly,” replies his friend, “because I am not at all sure that I shall be able to renew it.” Will stares at him in some alarm. “But what am I to do if I hav’n’t the money?” John Ingerfield shrugs his shoulders. “You don’t mean, my dear Jack, that you would put me in prison?” “Why not? Other people have to go there who can’t pay their debts.” Will Cathcart’s alarm grows to serious proportions. “But our friendship,” he cries, “our—” “My dear Will,” interrupts the other, “there are few friends I would lend three hundred pounds to and make no effort to get it back. You, certainly, are not one of them.” “Let us make a bargain,” he continues. “Find me a wife, and on the day of my marriage I will send you back that bill with, perhaps, a couple of hundred added. If by the end of next month you have not introduced me to a lady fit to be, and willing to be, Mrs. John Ingerfield, I shall decline to renew it.” John Ingerfield refills his own glass and hospitably pushes the bottle towards his guest—who, however, contrary to his custom, takes no notice of it, but stares hard at his shoe-buckles. “Are you serious?” he says at length. “Quite serious,” is the answer. “I want to marry. My wife must be a lady by birth and education. She must be of good family—of family sufficiently good, indeed, to compensate for the refinery. She must be young and beautiful and charming. I am purely a business man. I want a woman capable of conducting the social department of my life. I know of no such lady myself. I appeal to you, because you, I know, are intimate with the class among whom she must be sought.” “There may be some difficulty in persuading a lady of the required qualifications to accept the situation,” says Cathcart, with a touch of malice. “I want you to find one who will,” says John Ingerfield. Early in the evening Will Cathcart takes leave of his host, and departs thoughtful and anxious; and John Ingerfield strolls contemplatively up and down his wharf, for the smell of oil and tallow has grown to be very sweet to him, and it is pleasant to watch the moonbeams shining on the piled-up casks. Six weeks go by. On the first day of the seventh John takes Will Cathcart’s acceptance from its place in the large safe, and lays it in the smaller box beside his desk, devoted to more pressing and immediate business. Two days later Cathcart picks his way across the slimy yard, passes through the counting-house, and enters his friend’s inner sanctum, closing the door behind him.