He turned it to account in the lean days that followed, glad to augment his slender income by becoming the paid secretary to one of the most prominent branches. Here fortune sent him Mrs. Uniacke, eager, hypnotized in turn by the shrill cry of woman's wrongs, but ignorant of business matters, glad to turn to him for advice. Little by little he strengthened the tie, slipping into her daily life; inwardly sore at the "chronic ill-luck" which forced him to accept her poor hospitality after a course of Ritz dinners, yet too shrewd to miss the economy, under the present heavy cloud. But nothing could check his love of show. He ran up tailor bills galore; hatters and bootmakers learned to know him, credit was failing everywhere. Now the day of reckoning had dawned, tradesmen's patience at an end. Something must be done at once. He swore moodily at his bills. He got up from his seat at the table, went to the cupboard, found a cork-screw and opened a bottle of brandy there with this typical reflection: "I'm jolly glad now I ordered a dozen! A stroke of luck meeting Charlie like that..." He referred to a school friend of narrow means who had lately entered a wine merchant's business and had run against Stephen in the street and parted from him with an order. He filled his glass up with water--the grocer had flatly refused to deliver further syphons to his credit--and, on his way back to the table, he paused for a moment thoughtfully to study his pale face in the glass. "I wonder?" He smiled at the reflection, smoothing back his sleek hair. "You never know ... I've a mind to try it!--Women are queer kittle-cattle. It's just on the cards she'd rise to it. Anyhow, it can do no harm." He sat down, drank thirstily, then took up his pen and with knit brows. "Dear Mrs. Uniacke," he began at the top of a plain sheet of paper. (No date and no address; he was not without a certain method!) "Will you excuse my dining with you? I'm so sorry and disappointed, but the fact is I am faced to-night with harassing business of my own and really quite unfit for company. "For some time past I've longed to tell you of all these painful worries of mine. You're so awfully kind and _understanding_..." He broke off and drained his glass. "She'll like that--they always do!" then picked up his pen again. "I'm really in a dreadful hole. I think I explained to you once that my father has never been quite fair to me--a hard man, fond of his money--and my sister is his favourite child. I lost my mother years ago and have no one to turn to in my trouble except yourself--so I hope you'll forgive me--but I'm feeling so utterly wretched to-night. "The fact is I can't go on living in London on my means. It's impossible with my small salary and the result is pressing debts.