"You're magnanimous, Julia; but evidently what's good enough for me isn't good enough for you." Nick spoke with bitterness. "I don't like you enough--that's the obstacle," she held herself in hand to say. "You did a year ago; you confessed to it." "Well, a year ago was a year ago. Things are changed to-day." "You're very fortunate--to be able to throw away a real devotion," Nick returned. She had her pocket-handkerchief in her hand, and at this she quickly pressed it to her lips as to check an exclamation. Then for an instant she appeared to be listening to some sound from outside. He interpreted her movement as an honourable impulse to repress the "Do you mean the devotion I was witness of this morning?" But immediately afterwards she said something very different: "I thought I heard a ring. I've telegraphed for Mrs. Gresham." He wondered. "Why did you do that?" "Oh I want her." He walked to the window, where the curtains had not been drawn, and saw in the dusk a cab at the door. When he turned back he went on: "Why won't you trust me to make you like me, as you call it, better? If I make you like me as well as I like you it will be about enough, I think." "Oh I like you enough for _your_ happiness. And I don't throw away a devotion," Mrs. Dallow continued. "I shall be constantly kind to you. I shall be beautiful to you." "You'll make me lose a fortune," Nick after a moment said. It brought a slight convulsion, instantly repressed, into her face. "Ah you may have all the money you want!" "I don't mean yours," he answered with plenty of expression of his own. He had determined on the instant, since it might serve, to tell her what he had never breathed to her before. "Mr. Carteret last year promised me a pot of money on the day we should be man and wife. He has thoroughly set his heart on it." "I'm sorry to disappoint Mr. Carteret," said Julia. "I'll go and see him. I'll make it all right," she went on. "Then your work, you know, will bring you an income. The great men get a thousand just for a head." "I'm only joking," Nick returned with sombre eyes that contradicted this profession. "But what things you deserve I should do!" "Do you mean striking likenesses?" He watched her a moment. "You do hate it! Pushed to that point, it's curious," he audibly mused. "Do you mean you're joking about Mr. Carteret's promise?" "No--the promise is real, but I don't seriously offer it as a reason." "I shall go to Beauclere," Julia said. "You're an hour late," she added in a different tone; for at that moment the door of the room was thrown open and Mrs. Gresham, the butler pronouncing her name, ushered in.