wakened too soon and was still sulky for lack of sleep. The air was thick with the chill and odour of night-damps. He buttoned his overcoat resolutely and put on his gloves. "Now," he said to himself, "let us see. What shall we do?"
The question was still unanswered—though he was pacing up and down the pavement with it, vainly trying to think—when he saw her descending the steps to the sidewalk. He hastened to meet her. "Have you thought of anything?"
She blushed faintly. "No."
"We must," he said. "Your mother may arrive any moment now. Does she know your address?"
"Yes."
"She'll come direct to the house, then?"
"I suppose so."
"Let us get away from here."
He turned his back on the bustle of Sixth Avenue and led her toward the quieter streets of old Greenwich. She went in a silence which left the affair wholly in his hands; and he frowned over it diligently.
He began: "It won't cost me ten dollars a week to live now, and I have twenty-five. Why can't you take the rest—the fifteen—for as long as you'll need it, and just tell your mother that you have money to keep you here and you intend to stay?"
"Because I" He did not understand her confusion. "Because I can't."
"Why can't you?"
"How can I? I have no There's no reason why you"
"Yes, there is. There's every reason." She shook
