They left the room, and Iris, struggling with her tears, led the way to the study door. As he entered Dyce gave an exclamation of pleasure. The little room was furnished and adorned very tastefully; hook-shelves, with all Lashmar's own books carefully arranged, and many new volumes added, made a pleasant show; a handsome writing-table and chair seemed to invite to penwork. "I could have done something here," Dyce remarked, with a nodding of the head. Iris came nearer. Timidly she laid a hand upon his shoulder; appealingly she gazed into his face. "Dear"--it was a just audible whisper--"you are so clever--you are so far above ordinary men--" Lashmar smiled. His arm fell lightly about her waist. "We have still nearly two hundred pounds a year," the whisper continued. "There's Len--but I must take him from school--" "Pooh! We'll talk about that." A cry of gratitude escaped her. "Dyce! How good you are! How bravely you hear it, my own dear husband. I'll do anything, anything! We needn't have a servant. I'll work--I don't care anything if you still love me. Say you still love me!" He kissed her hair. "It's certain I don't hate you.--Well, we'll see how things look to-morrow. Who knows? It may be the real beginning of my career!" End of Project Gutenberg's Our Friend the Charlatan, by George Gissing