Miss Barry is now making wild pantomimic signs to Susan. ‘Stop her!’ her lips are saying—‘stop her at all risks, or we shall be eternally disgraced!’ And, indeed, the poor lady had not another penny to spend beyond what she had already arranged for. If this double picture that the rash and reckless Betty speaks of becomes an accomplished fact, who is to pay for it? Not Miss Barry, certainly, because she has nothing with which to pay. And, naturally, the photographer will demand his just fees, and then all will come out, and— She is on the point of appealing to Miss Ricketty, when Dom nudges her. ‘It’s all right,’ whispers he. ‘I have enough for that. I’ve settled it with Betty.’ Miss Barry gives him a grateful look, greatly interspersed with rebuke. Such a throwing away of good money! As if that conceited child could not be satisfied with one representation of her face! She must really speak to Dom about his folly later—a little later—on. It doesn’t seem folly at all to Dominick, who is a most generous youth, if extravagant, and who would give a great deal more to this photographic business if it was in his power. But a great deal has been spent of late on cartridges for the murdering of Mr. Crosby’s rabbits—so much, indeed, that cigarettes have grown scarce and pipes a luxury, spite of even the small sums that Carew has thrown into the common fund. Carew has generally a shilling or two in his pockets, the Rector deeming it advisable to give to his eldest son, out of his terribly inadequate income, a certain amount of pocket-money, to prepare him for the time when he will be thrown on his own resources; to teach him to economize now, so that when he is gazetted, and has to rely on his own slender allowance, he will be able to understand how to make money go as far as it can. All through the boy’s educational course, he had felt it a sort of madness to put him into the army at all—a boy who must necessarily live entirely on his pay—a forlorn arrangement in these fast days, and one out of which only ten per cent. rise successfully. But the last wish of his dying wife had been that Carew should enter the army. She had come of a good fighting stock herself, poor soul! to which she remained faithful, having fought her own fight with poverty most bravely until she died; and the Rector, who had cared less and less for earthly things since she had gone to heaven, had not the heart or the strength to refuse that dying wish. ‘You’re sure you have it?’ whispers back Miss Barry to Dom. ‘Certain.’ ‘Then’—sharply—‘it would have been much more to your credit if you had kept it.’ ‘To my credit, yes,’ says Dom. ‘A more disgraceful display of extravagance—’ Miss Barry, either from the forced whispering or indignation, here grows hoarse, and coughs a little, whereupon Miss Ricketty, who is now intensely interested, and is listening with all her might, holds out to her a jar of jujubes; but Miss Barry waves them off.