“But if Nora knows that I’ve been telling you”—cried Alice—“she’ll never forgive me. She made me promise I wouldn’t tell you. But how can you help knowing? If father’s made a bankrupt, it wouldn’t be very nice for you! How could you go on living with us? Nora thinks she’s going to earn money—that father can sell two wretched little books—and we can go and live in a tiny house on the Cowley Road—and—and—all sorts of absurd things!” “But Why is it Nora that has to settle all these things?” asked Connie in bewilderment. “Why doesn’t your mother—” “Oh, because mother doesn’t know anything about the bills,” interrupted Alice. “She never can do a sum—or add up anything—and I’m no use at it either. Nora took it all over last year, and she won’t let even me help her. She makes out the most wonderful statements—she made out a fresh one to-day—that’s why she had a headache when she came to meet you. But what’s the good of statements? They won’t pay the bank.” “But why—why—” repeated Connie, and then stopped, lest she should hurt Alice’s feelings. “Why did we get into debt? I’m sure I don’t know!” Alice shook her head helplessly. “We never seemed to have anything extravagant.” These things were beyond Connie’s understanding. She gave it up. But her mind impetuously ran forward. “How much is wanted altogether?” Alice, reluctantly, named a sum not much short of a thousand pounds. “Isn’t it awful?” She sighed deeply. Yet already she seemed to be talking of other people’s affairs! “We can’t ever do it. It’s hopeless. Papa’s taken two little school-books to do. They’ll kill him with work, and will hardly bring in anything. And he’s full up with horrid exams and lectures. He’ll break down, and it all makes him so miserable, because he can’t really do the work the University pays him to do. And he’s never been abroad—even to Rome. And as to Greece! It’s dreadful!” she repeated mechanically. Connie sprang up and began to pace the little room. The firelight played on her mop of brown hair, bringing out its golden shades, and on the charming pensiveness of her face. Alice watched her, thinking “She could do it all, if she chose!” But she didn’t dare to say anything, for fear of Nora. Presently Connie gave a great stretch. “It’s damnable!” she said, with energy. Alice’s instinct recoiled from the strong word. It wasn’t the least necessary, she thought, to talk in that way. Connie made a good many more enquiries—elicited a good many more facts. Then suddenly she brought her pacing to a stop. “Look here—we must go to bed!—or Nora will be after us.” Alice went obediently. As soon as the door had shut upon her, Connie went to a drawer in her writing table, and took out her bank-book. It had returned that morning and she had not troubled to look at it. There was always enough for what she wanted.