"The money for the furniture. You wrote me word you had sold it."
"But there were the debts, Gerald. I sold the furniture to pay them. How else could I have left?--they'd not have let me come away. It was not enough to pay all; there's six or seven pounds unpaid still."
An exceedingly blank look settled on Gerald's face. The one ray of comfort looming out of this checkmating step of his wife's, reconciling him to it in a small degree, had been the thought of the money she would receive for the furniture. But what he might have said was stopped by a shriek from Winny, who became suddenly aware that the cab, save for themselves, was empty.
"The luggage, Gerald, the luggage! O Gerald, the luggage!"
"Hold your tongue, Winny," said Gerald angrily, pulling her back as she was about either to spring out or to stop the driver. "The luggage is all right. It will be sent to the lodgings."
"But we want some of the things at once," said Winny piteously. "What shall we do without them?"
"The best you can," coolly answered Gerald. "Did you suppose you were going to fill Hamish Channing's hall with boxes and bundles?"
Mrs. Channing stood ready to receive them with her face of welcome, and the first thing Winny did was to burst into tears and sob out the grievance about the luggage in her arms. If Gerald Yorke had married a pretty wife, he had also married a silly and incapable one: and Gerald had known it for some years now. Just waiting to hand them over to Mrs. Channing's care, and to give the written address of the lodgings, Gerald left. He was engaged that afternoon to dine with a party at Richmond, and would not see his wife again before the morrow.
"Don't--you--mean--to live with us?" she ventured to ask, on hearing him say this, her face growing white with dismay.
"Of course I shall live with you," sharply answered Gerald. "But I have my chambers, and when engagements keep me out, shall sleep at them."