"Millionnaires only get their lives saved in books," Nell rejoined bitterly.
He kicked the hat-stand angrily.
"Look here, Nell, I can't go to that beastly bank to-day. I'm sick of it! I'll be committing suicide, or murder, or something, if I do!"
A quick little sob caught suddenly at her throat.
"Oh, Denis!" she whispered. "Oh, Denis!"
He smoothed out a dent he had made in his hat. He looked up at her, a humorous smile twisting his mouth.
"Anyhow, I'll be a success as an author soon," he said. "Didn't I say all this beastly bank business was copy? Well, my books'll be pretty morbid and sordid, won't they?"
She felt blindly for his coat; it danced before her eyes in a mist. He began to laugh.
"I say, old fumble-fist, wouldn't old Pom-Pom be rich while I was murdering him? I can see him—'Excuse me, Mr. O'Brien, but you really are going to work in an unnecessarily rough manner.'" He dived an arm into the coat she held out for him. "Nell—think I shall ever want to bring in a realistic murder into a book? If so, now's the time to get it."
"You're late. Don't dawdle."