Eventually Jimmie had his way. Tony Merewether was summarily dismissed, but bidden to return in an hour's time, when Aline would be graciously pleased to be ready. She poured out Jimmie's coffee, and sat at the side of the table, watching him eat. He turned to his letters, picked up the one addressed to “David Rendell.” Aline noticed a shade of displeasure cross his face. “Who is Mr. Rendell, Jimmie?” asked Aline. “A man I know, dear,” he replied, putting the envelope in his pocket. He went on with his breakfast meditatively for a few moments, then opened his other letters. He threw a couple of bills across the table. His face had regained its serenity. “See that these ill-mannered people are paid, Aline.” “What with, dear?” “Money, my child, money. What!” he exclaimed, noting a familiar expression on her face. “Are we running short? Send them telegrams to say we'll pay next week. Something is bound to come in by then.” “Mrs. Bullingdon ought to send the cheque for her portrait,” said Aline. “Of course she will. And there's something due from Hyam. What a thing it is to have great expectations! Here's one from Renshaw,” he said, opening another letter. “'Dear Padgate'--Dear Padgate!” He put his hands on the table and looked across at Aline. “Now, what on earth can I have done to offend him? I've been 'Dear Jimmie' for the last twelve years.” Aline shook her young head pityingly. “Don't you know yet that it is always 'Dear Padgate' when they want to borrow money of you?” Jimmie glanced at the letter and then across the table again. “Dear me,” he said thoughtfully. “Your knowledge of the world at your tender age is surprising. He does want money. Poor old chap! It is really quite touching. 'For the love of God lend me four pounds ten to carry me on to the end of the quarter.'” “That's two months off. Mr. Renshaw will have to be more economical than usual,” said Aline, drily. “I am afraid he drinks dreadfully, Jimmie.” “Hush, dear!” he said, becoming grave. “A man's infirmities are his infirmities, and we are not called upon to be his judges. How much have we in the house altogether?” he asked with a sudden return to his bright manner. “Ten pounds three and sixpence.” “Why, that's a fortune. Of course we can help Renshaw. Wire him his four pounds ten when you go out.” “But, Jimmie----” expostulated this royal person's minister of finance. “Do what I say, my dear,” said Jimmie, quietly. That note in his voice always brought about instant submission, fetched her down from heights of pitying protection to the prostrate humility of a little girl saying “Yes, Jimmie,” as to a directing providence. She did not know from which of the two positions, the height or the depth, she loved him the more. As a matter of fact, the two ranges of emotion were perfect complements one of the other, the sex in her finding satisfaction of its two imperious cravings, to shelter and to worship.