ated. She knew Ronnie did not realise how much the new
building and necessary repairs on the estate were costing her this year.

"What is your balance at the bank, Ronnie?"

"I haven't the remotest idea."

"Darling, why don't you make a note of your last balance on your
counterfoil? Then at any moment you can add up all subsequent cheques
and see at a glance how you stand."

"Yes, I know, you have explained all that to me before, Helen. But, you
see, most of my counterfoils are blank! I forget to fill them in. You
can't write books, and also keep accounts. If you really think it
important, I might give up the former, and turn my whole attention to
the latter."

"Don't be silly, dear! You are blessed with a wife who keeps a careful
account of every penny of her own. But I know nothing of your earnings
and spendings, excepting when you suddenly remark at breakfast: 'Hullo!
Here's a useful little cheque for a thousand'--in much the same tone of
voice as you exclaim the next minute: 'Hullo! What excellent
hot-buttered toast!' Ronnie, I wish you would manage to invest rather
more."

"My dear girl, I have invested heaps! You made me. But what is the use
of saving money when there are only ourselves to consider? We may as
well spend it, and have a good time. If there were kiddies to leave it
to, it would be different. I had so long of being impecunious, that I
particularly enjoy feeling bottomless! Besides, each year will bring in
more. This African book ought to be worth all the rest put together."

Helen was silent; but she sighed as she filled in Cook's cheque and
signed it. Ronald had spoken so lightly of the great disappointment of
their married life. It was always difficult to get Ronnie to take things
seriously. The fact was: he took _himself_ so seriously, that he was
obliged to compensate by taking everything and everybody else rather
lightly. No doubt this arrangement of relative values, made for success.
Ronnie's success had been very rapid, and very brilliant. He accepted it
with the unconscious modesty of the true artist; his work meaning
immeasurably more to him than that which his work brought him, either in
praise or pennies.

But Helen gloried in the praise, kept a watchful eye, so far as he would
let her, on the pennies; and herself ministered to the idea that all
else must be subservient, where Ronnie's literary career was concerned.

She was ministering to it now, at a personal cost known only to