"So you think you can earn eighty-five pounds a year by your pen!" sneered the clergyman, buttoning up his overcoat.
"I mean to try," said Harry, provoked into a firmer tone.
"Is this your deliberate decision?"
"It is."
"Then I am sorry I wasted my time by coming so far to hold out a helping hand to you. It is the last time, Henry. You may go your own way after this. Only, when your pen brings you to the poorhouse, don't come to me—that's all!"
Harry contrived to keep his temper without effort. Pinpricks do not hurt a man with a mortal wound. As for Mrs. Ringrose, she had fled before the proposal which she knew was coming, and of the result of which she felt equally sure. But she came to her door to bid the offended clergyman good-bye, and at last her boy and she were alone. He flung his arms round her neck.
"I am never going to leave you again!" he cried passionately. "I am not going to look for any more work. I am going to stop at home and write for T.T. until I can teach myself to write something better. I am going to work for you and for us both. I am going to do my work beside you, and you're going to help me. We ought never to have separated. Nothing shall ever separate us again!"
"Until you marry," murmured Mrs. Ringrose.
"I will never marry!" cried her boy.