and each other. I am doing what I feel is best for
both of us."

Mr. Treffry took hold of the painter's sleeve.

"I make you an offer," he said. "Your word not to see or write to her
for a year! Then, position or not, money or no money, if she'll have
you, I'll make it right for you."

"I could not take your money."

A kind of despair seemed suddenly to seize on Mr. Nicholas Treffry. He
rose, and stood towering over them.

"All my life--" he said; but something seemed to click deep down in his
throat, and he sank back in his seat.

"Go!" whispered Christian, "go!" But Mr. Treffry found his voice again:
"It's for the child to say. Well, Chris!"

Christian did not speak.

It was Harz who broke the silence. He pointed to Mr. Treffry.

"You know I can't tell you to come with--that, there. Why did you send
for me?" And, turning, he went out.

Christian sank on her knees, burying her face in her hands. Mr. Treffry
pressed his handkerchief with a stealthy movement to his mouth. It was
dyed crimson with the price of his victory.

XXVI

A telegram had summoned Herr Paul from Vienna. He had started forthwith,
leaving several unpaid accounts to a more joyful opportunity, amongst
them a chemist's bill, for a wonderful quack medicine of which he
brought six bottles.

He came from Mr. Treffry's room with tears rolling down his cheeks,
saying:

"Poor Nicholas! Poor Nicholas! Il n'a pas de chance!"

It was difficult to find any one to listen; the women were scared and
silent, waiting for the orders that were now and then whispered through
the door. Herr Paul could not bear this silence, and talked to his
servant for half an hour, till Fritz also vanished to fetch something
from the town. Then in despair Herr Paul went to his room.

It was hard not to be allowed to help--it was hard to wait! When the
heart was suffering, it was frightful! He turned and, looking furtively
about him, lighted a cigar. Yes, it came to every one--at some time or
other; and what was it, that death they talked of? Was it any worse than
life? That frightful jumble people made for themselves! Poor Nicholas!
After all, it was he that had the luck!

His eyes filled with tears, and drawing a penknife from his pocket,
he began to stab it into the stuffing of his chair. Scruff, who sat
watching the chink of light under the door, turned his head, blinked at
him, and began feebly tapping with a claw.

It was intolerable, this uncertainty--