“You can't understand. Between you and Nan it's always been different. You're strong and she's so tender. But I--I'm weak. I try to do right, but I'm everlastingly in the wrong. I've had to crawl for every scrap of love my wife ever gave me. She's thrown it at me like a bone to a dog. I'm a poor flimsy devil. I know it. We never ought to have married--she's too splendid. But she's all I've got. I thought--I thought if I could take her money and double it, she'd respect me at last--believe me clever. I did make money for her at first. I saw what a difference it made. Then I lost. I was afraid to tell her, so went on. I thought I'd win if I tried again. And she--after the first time, she expected the extra money from me. Little by little it all went. But don't make me tell her.” “Then it wasn't lost in land speculation?” “Part, but most in stocks bought on margins. My life's been hell for the past six months. Don't make me tell her.” Barrington rose. “It's late. I'll let you know to-morrow. You must give me a complete list of your indebtedness. Whatever I decide, I think you ought not to deceive Je---- And, by the way, say the thing you mean when we talk of this to-morrow. Say _give_, instead of _lend_. I prefer frankness.” That “whatever I decide” told Ocky his battle was won. One night's sleep placed all his dread behind him. His lack of self-respect permitted him to recuperate rapidly. Early in the morning he was up and in the garden, whistling cheerfully as though he had suffered no humiliation. Peter heard him and ran to greet him. For an hour before breakfast they exchanged secrets and Peter, in a burst of confidence, initiated his uncle into the mystery of the loft. “A fine place to hide, Peter?” “Rather.” “And you never told anyone before?” “No one.” “And you told me! Well, what d'you know about that? You must be somehow fond of this poor old uncle.” Peter's father heard them laughing and was annoyed. His night had been restless. He was still more irritated when, on entering the stable, he found Ocky with his arm round Peter's shoulder. In the sunlight he saw at a glance how his cousin had deteriorated. His gait was more slouchy, his expression more furtive, his teeth more broken with constant biting on the pipe. His attempts at smartness--the soaped mustaches and the dusty spats--were wretchedly offensive; they were so ineffectually pretentious. The weak man's hand commenced to fumble in his pocket as Barrington's eyes searched him. “Where's my baccy? Must have dropped it. Seen my pouch anywhere, Peter?” “It's in your hand, uncle.” Peter went off into a peal of laughter. “Surely you can do without smoking till after breakfast.” Peter's laugh stopped, cut short by the sternness in his father's voice.