ssional manner blew
a long, thin stream of smoke from between her lips.

"How long do you think that happiness is going to last?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"You chance it?"

"Yes."

"And then when the end comes you have not even got yourself to fall
back upon. You're done for--sucked dry. You fall to pieces because
you've sold your independence."

Sally left the dressing-table and crossed to Janet's bed. Sitting
there, she put her bare arms on Janet's shoulders.

"It's no good your talking like that," she said gently. "You think
that way, and right or wrong I think the other. If I loved a man and
he loved me, I'd willingly sell my independence, willingly do
anything for him."

"Supposing he wasn't going to marry you?" said Janet, imperturbably.

"Then he wouldn't love me."

"Oh yes; he might."

"Then I don't know what you mean."

Janet stood up from the bed. "I can smell bloaters for supper," she
said; "if you don't hurry up, Mr. Hewson 'll get the best one. I can
see Mrs. Hewson picking it out for him. Come on. Put a blouse on.
There's a woman who's sold her independence. She doesn't get much
for it, as far as I can see. Come on. I'm going to talk to Mr. Arthur
about art to-night."

CHAPTER VII

It is one thing to say you could never marry a man, and it is another
thing to refuse him when he asks you.

That very afternoon Mr. Arthur had received the intimation at his
bank that he was shortly to be made a cashier. He glowed with the
prospect. His conversation that evening was of the brightest. The
poisoned shafts of Miss Hallard's satire met the armoured resistance
of his high spirits. They fell--pointless and unavailing--from his
unbounded faith in himself. A man who, after a comparatively few
years' service in a bank, is deemed fitted for the responsible duties
of a cashier, is qualified to express an opinion, even on art. Mr.
Arthur expressed many.

"Don't see how you can say a thing's artistic if you don't like it,"
he declared.

"I think you're quite right, Mr. Arthur," said Mrs. Hewson. "If I
like a thing--like that picture in one of the Christmas Annuals--I
always say, 'Now I call that artistic,' don't I, Ern?"

Her husband nodded with his mouth full of the best bloater.

"Well, you couldn't call that thing artistic, Mrs. Hewson, if you
mean the thing that's over the piano in the sitting-room?"

"Why not?" asked Janet; "don't you like it?"

"No," said Mr. Arthur emphatical