And that which was good in him warred fiercely against temptations more sordid. As far as he knew, she was a woman of fortune. So did her dress, her habit of life, her old comfort-filled Medlow home, proclaim her. Of her social standing as the daughter of Stephen Gale who bawled out bids for yelts and rams in the Medlow market place, he knew or understood very little. Her fortune was a fact. His own, the few hundreds which he had gained by _Through Blood and Snow_, was rapidly disappearing. The failure of the new book meant starvation or reversion to Cherbury Mews. Married to a woman with money he could snap his fingers at crust or livery. . . . For the time he conquered. The end of the reading coincided more or less with Midsummer quarter-day. Bills from every kind of coverer or adorner of the feminine human frame fell upon her like a shower of autumn leaves. She sat at her small writing desk, jotted down the amounts, and added them up with a much sucked pencil point. The total was incredible. With fear at her heart she rushed round to her bank for a note of her balance. It had woefully decreased since January. Payment of all these bills would deplete it still more woefully. The rent of “The Towers” and the diminishing income on the deposit account were trivial items set against her expenditure. She summoned Myra. “We’re heading for bankruptcy.” “Any fool could see that,” said Myra. “What are we going to do?” “Live like Christians instead of heathens,” replied Myra. “If you would come to Chapel with me one Sunday night you could be taught how.” Here Myra failed. She belonged to a Primitive Non-Conformist Communion whose austere creed and drab ceremonial had furnished occasion for Olivia’s teasing wit since childhood. Heathendom, ever divorced from Lydian pleasures, presented infinitely more reasons for existence than Myra’s Calvinism. “It seems funny that a dear old thing like you can revel in the idea of Eternal Punishment.” “I haven’t got much else to revel in, have I?” said Myra grimly. “I suppose that’s true,” said Olivia thoughtfully. “But it isn’t my fault, is it? If you had wanted to revel, mother and I would have been the last people to prevent you. Why not begin now? Go and have a debauch at the pictures.” “You began by talking of bankruptcy,” said Myra. “And you prescribed little Bethel. I’d sooner go broke.” “You’ll have your own way, as usual,” said Myra. “And if I go broke, what’ll you do?” asked Olivia, unregenerately enjoying the conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to put you together again,” replied Myra, with no sign of emotion on her angular, withered face. Olivia leaped from her chair. “I’m a beast.” “That can’t be,” said Myra, “seeing that it was I as brought you up.” * * * * *