"My head went queer suddenly," she said. "It does that lately. It's fatigue, I think. Listen to me, Paul Ingram. I want to strike a bargain with you."
"Well."
"I want to buy 'Sad Company' myself."
"In order to destroy it?"
No answer.
"And at what do you assess the damage, moral and material, to your creed that its suppression will avoid. Come, now! just for curiosity's sake."
"Five hundred pounds—a thousand if——"
He interrupted her brusquely. "You must have taken leave of your senses. Do you think I'm to be bought? Burn the thing yourself, if you like—burn it in the name of whatever god it offends—but don't impute dishonor ever again to a man, even to a man that doesn't believe in Him."
She caught at his sleeve. "Oh, but you must have some money for it," she said, incoherently. "You must—you must! Don't rob me of a pleasure. You've travelled the world over, but you don't know what poverty in London means. Why, only to-night, as I looked down the table and saw your face so—so proud and fine, and thought how little stood between you and—there! I won't even name it. But don't be stubborn—for my sake. Because you must have money; you must have money, dear."
At the last word he took her in his arms.