"I dare say he did; it's just like him to say it. His client is himself."
"No?" exclaimed William Arkell, lifting his head.
"I firmly believe it to be so. He is pressing for another ten pounds now; it was due yesterday."
"Have you got it for him? If not, why do you give me this?"
"I have got it," said Peter; "I have to receive money to-day. Thank you a thousand times, William, for this and all else. How is business?"
"Don't ask. I feel too ill to fret over it just now. I'd give it up to-morrow but for Travice."
Certain words all but escaped Peter Arkell's lips, but they were suppressed again. He wondered—he had wondered long—why William Arkell continued to live at an expensive rate. That it was his wife's doings, not his, Peter knew; but he could not help thinking that, had he been a firm, clever man, as William was, he should not have yielded to her.
He met her in the hall as he went out. She wore a rich, trailing silk, and bracelets of gold. Peter stopped to shake hands with her; but she was never too civil to him, or to his daughter Lucy. In point of fact, Lucy had for some time haunted Mrs. Arkell's dreams in a very unpleasant manner, entailing a frequent nightmare, hideous to contemplate.
"What did Peter Arkell want here?" she asked of her husband, before she was well in the room; and her tone was by no means a gracious one.