Smallman's letter ended with a sentence worth the whole of the rest. It was as though he had written himself into something near imaginative perception and true friendship: "But, my dear fellow, if you are resolved to continue in this blind and cruel folly, I can only pray and hope that the tragic trial it must be may make a man of you. Though you may be lost to us, I will pray, I believe in you enough to think, that you will not be altogether lost." René tore up his first indignant note, and wrote another, saying how much he appreciated the friendship and affection, how it had become impossible to turn back, and how it pleased him to know that between himself and those who had been his friends there would be the separation of circumstance, not that of enmity and bitterness. This done, he posted his reply and wired to his bank in Thrigsby to find out how much money he possessed. He received the answer later when he was with Ann at tea: Fifty-five pounds. "Je-rusalem!" she cried. "I spent very little," he explained, "and my wife had seven hundred a year." "Seven hundred!" She was scared. "Seven hundred! And you chucked that to come and live in Mitcham Mews! Well, no wonder they say the world's going balmy." She was both relieved and awed by his vast wealth, and allowed him to take her to a music-hall, where her pleasure brimmed over so that he could share it. The fifty-five pounds changed her attitude toward him somewhat, made her more sure of him, relieved her, perhaps, of anxiety. She lost the nervous discomfort that had shown itself in deference toward him, and she could now consider him as a practical proposition and no longer as the delightful but alarming perplexity he had been. She had time to breathe, to let things go their own way, until it became necessary to do something. She asked him questions about his old life to discover any talent or capacity that might be turned to account. "If the worst comes to the worst," she said, "I could teach you the paper flowers. You could do a lot in the daytime, and I'm sure we could sell most of them." He was quite prepared to make paper flowers. He was so fascinated by her capacity for the rough business of living and for extracting enjoyment out of almost everything she touched, that he was her admiring pupil, to be and do anything she might expect. At the music-hall a comedian had made the audience scream with laughter by his antic burlesque of a motorist. René was amused, but never smiled. Ann turned to him in some distress and said: "Don't you think it's funny?" She had laughed till the tears were streaming down her cheeks. "It's quite funny, but so old-fashioned. Cars don't break down like that now. I have driven hundreds of miles and never been stopped on the road." "Oh, did you drive a car?" "Yes. A little one." "Then we'll go and see Mr. Martin." And with this suggestion also he complied.