"It hurts me to hear you talk like that about your father," said Marion, sitting down and watching her husband as he walked slowly up and down before her. "Does it? That is interesting. I wonder why you are hurt because he is likely to live twenty years. You are not very likely to be hurt by his death." "Did I ever suggest such a thing?" "No, it suggested itself." At this speech Mrs. Darche rose. Standing quite still for a moment, she looked quietly into his uncertain eyes. He was evidently in the worst of humours, and quite unable to control himself, even had he wished to do so. She felt that it would be safer to leave him, for her own temper was overwrought and ready to break out. She turned towards the door. Then he called her back. "I say, Marion!" "Well." "What are you making such a fuss about?" "Have I said anything?" "No, not much, but you have a particularly uncomfortable way of letting one see what you would like to say." "Is that why you called me back?" asked Mrs. Darche on the point of turning away again. "I suppose so. It certainly was not for the pleasure of prolonging this delightful interview." Once more she moved in the direction of the door. Then something seemed to tighten about her heart, something long forgotten, and which, if she tried to understand it at all, she thought was pity. It was nothing--only a dead love turning in its grave. But it hurt her, and she stopped and looked back. John Darche was leaning against the high mantlepiece, shading his eyes from the fire with his small, pointed white hand. She came and stood beside him. "John," she said gently, "I want to speak to you seriously. I am very sorry if I was hasty just now. Please forget it." Darche looked up, pulled out his watch and glanced at it, and then looked at her again before he answered. His eyes were hard and dull. "I think I said that I was rather busy this morning," he answered slowly. "Yes, I know," answered Marion, in her sweet, low voice. "But I will not keep you long. I must speak. John, is this state of things to go on for ever?" "I fancy not. The death of one of us is likely to put a stop to it before eternity sets in," he answered with some scorn. "We can stop it now if we will but try," said Marion, laying her hand entreatingly upon his arm. "Oh yes, no doubt," observed John coldly. "Let me speak, please, this once," said Mrs. Darche. "I know that you are worried and harassed about business, and you know that I want to spare you all I can, and would help you if I could." "I doubt whether your help would be conducive to the interests of the Company," observed Darche. "No--I know that I cannot help you in that way. But if you would only let me, in other ways, I could make it so much easier for you." "Could you?" asked John, turning upon her immediately. "Then just lend me a hundred thousand dollars."