"Enough!" cried Jonathan, eagerly pocketing the memorandum. He was now almost driven to despair. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. " "There is a great art in it, if you did," quoth he. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. "A thousand dollars in British pounds!… A thousand dollars for four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened. " "Come along," thundered Jonathan.
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