"Why, I hope so," said David.
"And I hope you will like the work, though it may not be very big at first. I understand how important that is to a man." Radbourne nodded gravely. "But I have a theory that if he puts his heart into his work he is bound to get a good deal of happiness out of it. Don't you think so?"
"I'll try to remember that. When do you want me to come?"
"Could you make it next Monday?"
"I will be here then."
David went away from Jonathan Radbourne, the comic valentine; and the heartache, for some reason, was a little eased, courage a little stiffened.
"After all," he kept saying to himself, "it's only a gift to Shirley and the baby. And I'm glad to give it to them—they're worth anything. It's a debt, too. I owe them everything I can give. And maybe now we can be happy as we used to be—no worries or quarrels."
He tried to keep thinking of that—of the comfort in knowing that next month's expenses could be met, of debts growing less, not bigger, of a love happily reborn under freedom from worry.
He went to Dick Holden's office. That busy young man met him with visible embarrassment, which, however, David ignored.
"Dick," he plunged at once into his errand, "I owe you a lot of money."