In reply to a shrill “Come in,” he entered and found the old lady sitting by the open window with a black cat on her lap. The room was small and homelike; there were some shabby rugs, a few fine prints, a case of miniatures, and, in a cabinet, a variety of odd “bits” which Mrs. Malone had picked up from time to time. “So it’s you, Douglas,” she exclaimed; “come over and sit down. I’m always glad to see you; you know you have the private entrée!” and she laughed. “What have you been doing with yourself to-day?” As he muttered something indefinite, she added, “What’s your book?” holding out her hand. “Burma, I declare! One does not hear much of that part of the world; it’s always connected in my mind with rice and rain. Douglas,” suddenly raising her eyes, “I believe you have something on your mind. What is it? Come now—speak out—is it a love affair, or money? You know I’m _safe_.” Thus invited, in a few halting sentences, he told her of his friend’s good offices, the offer, his supreme delight—and subsequent despair. “A hundred pounds—yes, well, it’s a tidy sum,” she admitted, “and you will want all that. I think Gregory and Co. might pay your passage, as the salary is not large.” “No,” agreed Shafto, “but I’ll be only too glad to earn it. It’s this blessed ready money that stumps me.” He began to pace about the room with his hands in his pockets, then suddenly broke out: “Mrs. Malone, I’d give one of my eyes to go; to be up and doing, and get out into the world—especially to the East. Isn’t it hard lines—one moment to be offered a splendid chance, and the next to have it snatched away.” “I suppose you couldn’t borrow?” she suggested, looking at him over her spectacles. “No, who would lend _me_ money? I have no security and no wealthy friends.” “Well, I am not a wealthy friend, Douglas, but I will lend you a hundred pounds—I’ve saved a good bit—and I can.” “No, no, Mrs. Malone,” he interrupted. “I couldn’t accept it. I know how hardly your money has been earned; I know all your hateful worries; your bothers with servants and coal; your trampings into ‘the Grove,’ and up and down these confounded stairs.” “But, Douglas, you can pay me back by degrees.” “No; you’d run a poor chance of seeing your hundred pounds again. Mr. Martin informed me the firm never paid in advance, as cholera carried off people in a few hours—cheerful, wasn’t it? And if I were carried off, where would _you_ be?” “Here, my boy, and in the deepest grief.”