Mirabelle went over to her desk, and searched the pigeon-holes. "I've been told, Theodore, by--people I consider very reliable--that in August, dear John's money will be coming to me." This was the first time that she had ever broached the delicate subject. "I always meant to use some of it for the League." She had unearthed her check book, and was writing words and figures as angular as herself. "So really,--this is on account." She came over to hand him the check, and after a slight hesitation, she stooped and pecked him on the forehead, but immediately afterwards she relapsed into her consistently, non-romantic character. "You better give me an itemized account of how you spend it, though, Theodore. You better give me one every day. We've got to be businesslike, even if we _are_--engaged." CHAPTER XIII For two-thirds of a year, Henry Devereux had lived contrary to his independent taste, and to his education. He had virtually cut himself adrift from the people he liked and the pleasures he loved; his sole luxury had been his membership in the Citizens Club; and he had laboured far more diligently and with far less respite than his uncle had ever intended. He had overcome great difficulties, of which the most significant was his own set of social fetiches, and he had learned his weaknesses by exercise of his strength. He had made new friends, and brought the old ones closer to him--and this by virtue of honest plugging, and determination. He was unassumingly proud of himself, and he was prouder yet of Anna; he knew that the major portion of his accomplishment--and especially that part of it which had taken place within himself--was to be put down to Anna's credit. But the spring was coming towards them, and Henry winced to think of it. Heretofore, the message of spring, in Henry's estimation, had been a welcome to new clothes, golf, horseback parties, and out-of-door flirtations; this season, it meant to him a falling-off in the motion-picture business. The spring was calling to him, but Henry had to discipline his ears. His working hours were from eleven in the morning until midnight; he sat, day after day, in his constricted office, and glued his mind upon his problems. The Orpheum was still a sporting proposition to him, but even in sport, there come periods in which the last atom of nerve and will-power are barely sufficient to keep the brain in motion. Henry's nerves were fagged, his muscles were twitching, the inside of his head felt curiously heavy and red-hot; the spring was calling him, but he didn't dare to listen. The spirit of his Uncle John Starkweather was waiting to see if he came to the tape with his head down, and Henry was going to finish on his nerve. As a matter of fact, he could easily have spared an hour of two each day for exercise and recreation, but he wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't yield to Anna when she implored him to get out of doors, to freshen his mind and tame his muscles.