"Rich friends!" I writhed as one in torment. "Who are my rich friends? I have none, as you ought to know. I have now put in every cent of capital that I own—against your business experience, Fred. And this is where we’ve arrived. If my sister’s children weren’t dependent upon me—but then," I ended bitterly, "I shouldn’t be here, as I think you know." He bowed his head. "Didn’t your sister—wasn’t there anything—?" But to his credit, he did not finish. If, as I suppose, he meant to ask whether Laura left any money that I could use, he evidently thought better of it and walked away in a somber silence. And that is where we stand. That is where we stand in our business, and the needs of my household are expanding. Griselda knows nothing of my affairs and yet I surprise her dark eyes, singularly lustrous for one of her years, watching me at times out of her swarthy wrinkled face, as if divining the Jehannum I am experiencing. More than ever she lays herself out to perform incredible feats of economy, whilst I hypocritically pretend to be unaware of it. The children, having prospered and grown during the winter, are in need of new summer wardrobes, which I have ordered bought. If it is to be disaster, then shabbiness shall not betray us. Like the man who donned evening clothes in which to sink with the _Titanic_, I have always entertained a stubborn faith in the policy of good clothes. Policy, policy—the trail of policy is over me like a fetid odor—and how clean and unsmirched I have always felt in my stupid transparency! Gertrude, if she knew it, would now rejoice that she had thrown me over. I envy our clerks and typists who banish all cares at five in the afternoon and do not resume them until the following morning. What a gay life is theirs—if they but knew it. They jest and fool and hurl picturesque slang at one another and draw their pay on Saturdays, unconscious of how near to perdition we totter. If we go to the wall they will soon find other places. But I—shall find the wall. I wish I knew what the emotions of Fred are as, rucking his forehead heavily, he strides about our rugs. I only know, however, that mine are emotions of doom. The black doom is upon us. After days of haggling and lying and shuffling and paltering we have, as a firm, expired. Our vain and concentrated efforts to sell something that we had not the necessary means and connections to sell led us to neglect the things we could have done. I shall not soon forget the vile outburst of the heavy-jowled Sampson when as by a Sultan’s firman, he imperiously summoned us to his office and told us in his language what he thought of us. "People like you don’t belong in the Street—they belong in jail. Assign!" he snarled, "Better assign at once and clear out!"