metimes they would go
down Ludgate Hill and thence on to the Embankment. It was certainly
better for Flossie to be out of doors than in the dingy drawing-room
in Tavistock Place. They could talk freely in the less crowded
thorough-fares; and it was surprising the things they still found to
say to each other all about nothing. Every trace of Flossie's
depression had vanished; she walked with a brisk step, she chatted
gaily, she laughed the happiest laughter at the poorest jokes. All was
going well; and why, oh why could he not let well alone?

They were walking on the Embankment one day, and she, for such a
correct little person, was mad with mirth, when he broke out.
"Flossie, you little lunatic! You might be going to marry a
stock-broker instead of a journalist."

"I'm going to marry a very rich man--for me."

"For you, darling? A devilish poor one, I'm afraid."

"Oh don't! We've said enough about that."

"Yes, but I haven't told you everything. Do you know, I might have
been fairly well off by now, if I'd only chosen."

Now there was no need whatever for him to make that revelation. He was
driven to it by vanity. He wanted to make an impression. He wanted
Flossie to see him in all his moral beauty.

"How was that?" she asked with interest.

"I can't tell you much about it. It was something to do with business.
I got an offer of a thumping big partnership three years ago--and I
refused it."

He had made an impression. Flossie turned on him a look of wonder, a
look uncertain and inscrutable. "What did you do that for?"

"I did it because it was right. I didn't like the business."

"That's not quite the same thing, is it?"

"Not always. It happened to be in this case."

"Why, what sort of business was it?"

"It wasn't scavenging, and it wasn't burglary--exactly. It was--" he
hesitated--"only the second-hand book-trade."

"I know--they make a lot of money that way."

"They make too much for my taste sometimes. Besides--"

"Besides what?" They had turned into an embrasure of the parapet to
discuss this question. They stood close together looking over the
river.

"It isn't my trade. I'm only a blooming journalist."

"You don't make so very much out of that, do you? Is that the reason
why we have to wait?"

"I'm afraid so. But I hope I shall be something more than a journalist
some day."

"You _like_ writing, don't you?"

"Yes, Flossie; I shouldn't be much good at it, if I didn't."

"I see." Sh