Beneath this new distress George postponed the burning desire to clasp his Mary in his arms and beg forgiveness. He hurried to hospital; made for the Dean's office. Here disaster was confirmed. Simpson had already taken the Yorkshire place; the Dean had no other posts on his lists. “Only this Runnygate practice,” he said. “I haven't seen you since you qualified. Can you raise the price?” George, rising and making for the door, could only shake his head. There was something at his throat that forbade speech. Runnygate and all that Runnygate meant--the dear little home, the tight little practice, the tremendous future--was a bitter picture now that it was so utterly lost; now that even this place in Yorkshire was also gone. He shook his head. “Great pity!” the Dean told him. “I've kept it for you. Lawrence, the man who's leaving it, is coming to see me at five this evening. I shall have to help him find another purchaser.” III. The infernal something in George's throat gripped the harder as he took his way to his Mary. He cursed himself for that hideous cat enterprise. Had he never undertaken it, had he continued instead to entreat and implore, there was always the chance that his uncle would have relented and advanced the money sufficient for Runnygate. As things were, he stood for ever damned in his uncle's eyes; further, by his folly he had encompassed his darling Mary's ejection from a home where she might comfortably have stayed till he was in position to marry her; further, he had just missed the assistantship which, to his present frame of mind, seemed the sole post in the world that would give him sufficient upon which to call his Mary wife. The desperate thoughts augmented his fearful remorse at his treatment of her overnight. Arrived at Meath Street, admitted by Mrs. Pinking, he bounded up the stairs, tremendous in his agony of love. His Mary had her pretty nose pressed flat against the window. With dim eyes she had been gazing for her George in the opposite direction from that he had approached. He closed the door behind him. “Mary!” he called, arms outstretched. Into them she flung herself. They locked in a hug so desperate as only love itself could have borne. He poured out his remorse; beside him on the sofa she patted those brown hands. He told his gloomy tale; she patted the more lovingly--assured him that, if the Yorkshire place had failed, something equally good would turn up. But he was in desperate despondency. “It's all that infernal cat, Mary,” he groaned; she kissed that knotted forehead. He asked her: “By the way, where's that other brute?--the beast we brought here with us?” She peered low. “I've just fed the poor thing.” Attracted by her movement, that orange cat which had wrought the fearful disaster came forth from beneath the table. “G-r-r-r!” George growled; stamped his foot. The orange cat again took shelter. “Ah, don't frighten it, dear,” Mary told him. “It's done no harm.”