"I never heard anything so absurd! Shan't we have more money in a few weeks than we've had for years?"
"I dare say. It's all wanted. Besides, I have my work to finish."
"My dear Doris!"
A slight red mounted in Doris's cheeks.
"Oh, you may be as scornful as you like! But ten pounds is ten pounds, and I like keeping engagements."
The "work" in question meant illustrations for a children's book. Doris had accepted the commission with eagerness, and had been going regularly to the Campden Hill studio of an Academician—her mother's brother—who was glad to supply her with some of the "properties" she wanted for her drawings.
"I shall soon not allow you to do anything of the kind," said Meadows with decision.
"On the contrary! I shall always take paid work when I can get it," was the firm reply—"unless—"
"Unless what?"
"You know," she said quietly. Meadows was silent a moment, then reached out for her hand, which she gave him. They had no children; and, as he well knew, Doris pined for them. The look in her eyes when she nursed her friends' babies had often hurt him. But after all, why despair? It was only four years from their wedding day.