Trix stopped laughing. She was touched; it was pathetic to see how the man who worked for a pittance felt a sort of pain at the idea of squandering--an unselfish pain for the girl who would choose a brief ecstasy of extravagance when she might ensure a permanent increase of comfort. She could not herself feel like that about such a trifle as a thousand pounds (all in, she was wearing about a thousand pounds, and that not in full fig), but she saw how the case must appear to Airey Newton; the windfall that had tumbled into Peggy's lap meant years of hard work and of self-respecting economy to him. 'Yes, you're right,' she said. 'But she's too young for the lesson. And I--well, I'm afraid I'm incurable. You don't set us the best example either.' She smiled again as she indicated the luxurious table. 'A very occasional extravagance,' he remarked, seeing her misapprehension quite clearly, impelled to confirm it by his unresting fear of discovery, fingering the packet of five-pound notes in his pocket. 'I wish somebody could teach me to be prudent,' smiled Trix. 'Can one be taught to be different?' he asked, rather gloomily. 'Money doesn't really make one happy,' said Trix in the tone of a disillusionised millionaire. 'I suppose not,' he agreed, but with all the scepticism of a hopeless pauper. They both acted their parts well; each successfully imposed on the other. But pretence on this one point did not hinder a genuine sympathy nor a reciprocal attraction between them. He seemed to her the haven that she might have loved, yet had always scorned; she was to him the type of that moving, many-coloured, gay life which his allegiance to his jealous god forbade him to follow or to know. And they were united again by a sense common to them, apart from the rest of the company--the sense of dissatisfaction; it was a subtle bond ever felt between them, and made them turn to one another with smiles half-scornful, half-envious, when the merriment rose high. 'I'm glad to meet you to-night,' she said, 'because I think I can tell you that your advice--your Paris advice--has been a success.' 'You seemed rather doubtful about that when we met last.' 'Yes, I was.' She laughed a little. 'Oh, I've had some troubles, but I think I'm in smooth water now.' She hardly repressed the ring of triumph in her voice. 'Ah, then you won't come again to Danes Inn!' There was an unmistakable regret in his tone. Trix felt it echoed in her heart. She met his glance for a moment; the contact might have lasted longer, but he, less practised in such encounters, turned hastily away. Enough had passed to tell her that if she did not come she would be missed, enough to make her feel that in not going she would lose something which she had come to think of as pleasant in life. Was there always a price to be paid? Great or small, perhaps, but a price always? 'You should come sometimes where you can be seen,' she said lightly.