IX There was no room in Wynne’s mind for further discussion. It was fully occupied with his great advertisement scheme, which, in a few days’ time, would fling his name upon every newspaper and hoarding in the metropolis. He had no intention of allowing his share in the production to lack prominence. The name Wynne Rendall was to take precedence of all other consideration in his campaign. “The public is to take this play through me,” he announced, “and me they shall have in large doses.” Eve visited the flat alone, and made what arrangements were needful for moving their few belongings. It was a sunny little flat, and with adequate appointments would have looked very charming. The small amount of furniture they possessed, however, seemed painfully inadequate spread over the various rooms. On the day of the move she worked like a galley-slave to put the place in agreeable order. She felt somehow that it was a great occasion, and that when Wynne returned from the theatre he would feel likewise. Together, perhaps, they would have a glorious talk about their nearing future, and a little house-warming of two. But she was disappointed, for Wynne made no comment when he came in. “My posters are out,” he cried. “Have you seen ’em?” She shook her head. “I haven’t had a chance. I’ve been busy here all day getting straight.” She looked tired and rather grubby—her hair was tumbled, and her hands patched with floor-stain. For some reason her untidiness irritated Wynne. The girls at the theatre were smart and fresh, and their clothes were pleasant to see. A man expects his wife to be always at her best. “Um!” he remarked. “You look in rather a pickle.” His eyes wandered round the room: “Seems very bare, doesn’t it?” It seemed bare to her, too, but she would have taken it kindly if he had not said so. “With some curtains it would be better—and a few more chairs.” “Yes. Still, it’s the address that matters at the moment. The rest can wait till we see how the play goes. Just now I need all the money I can get for my own pocket. It’s essential. It’s bare and uncomfortable; but I have the club, so it doesn’t really matter.” “I haven’t a club,” flashed Eve, and repented the words almost before she had spoken them. Wynne looked at her fixedly. “Lord!” he exclaimed, “we are not going to start that sort of thing, are we?” Something in the quality of his voice struck her with startling force. It was so much more a “married” tone than she remembered to have heard before. The petulant child note had disappeared, and with its disappearance the mother note in her own voice wrapped itself up in sudden hardness. She held his eyes with hers. “I bargained for a share,” she said. “Am I getting it?” He wilted, and his head tossed from side to side. “What is all this about?” “Am I getting my share?” repeated Eve, more kindly. “You know if I am. Answer ‘Yes,’ if you honestly think so.” “I’m tired,” he countered.