If someone had had time to spend a lot of love about him his defects could have been patched up so as to be scarcely noticeable. As it was people only came to his help when he was on the point of tumbling down. They shored him up hurriedly and left him; but no one cared enough to give him new foundations. The right kind of woman could have rebuilt him throughout--the kind of woman who knows how to love a man for his faults as well as for his virtues. But few women are architects where their husbands are concerned--only those who marry to give more than they get. Nan could have done it; but she was married to Barrington. Glory could have done it; but she was only a little girl.--So the angels had to watch their good intentions crumble. Ocky knew quite well what was the matter with him--heart-hunger: he required a wife who would sit on his knee and ruffle his hair, and call him the funniest old dear in the world. Such a wife he would have had to carry through life; her dependence would have educated his strength. A wife who was censorious made him weakly obstinate and foolishly daring. If he had been patted and hugged, he would have been a good man. His mother had done that; but Jehane--ah, well, she did her best. Barrington, when he signed the check, had made Ocky promise to return to Jehane the thousand pounds she had lent. It wasn't her thousand pounds, but Glory's, held in trust for her till she married. Ocky had pledged his word to give it back on one condition--that Jehane was to be kept in ignorance of the transaction. At the time he had quite intended to carry out the agreement; but so much can be done with a thousand pounds and an ingenious mind can invent so many excuses for dishonesty. The morning after his home-coming he hung about the house instead of going to his office. Already his methods of holding her closely were getting on Jehane's nerves. His shiftless easy affection tried her patience beyond endurance. “Aren't you going yet?” “Presently, old gel. I want to have a good look at you first.” “I think you ought to go. You'll have all your life to look at me--and I've got my work, if you haven't.” “All right, old gel.” “I wish you wouldn't 'old gel' me so much. It's vulgar and silly.” Lighting his pipe, he strolled into the hall and picked up his hat. He stood there fumbling with it. Only when she followed him did he set it on his head, retreating toward the door. With the street at his back, he turned. “I say, about your money.” “For goodness sake, go. We can talk about that at lunch.” He glanced across his shoulder at the sunlit street; his flight would be unimpeded. “Don't lose your wool, old---- I mean, Jehane. I've something to tell you. Had a nice little stroke o' luck. Made thirty pounds for you.”