"Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.
"I always do," he sighed.
"And, please, please get some money—now."
"You know that I can't."
"Yes, you can. You have lots of friends—they won't refuse you."
"But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me a few pounds—"
"Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his protests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear—you can pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such a jolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."
Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a woman's tears and entreaties—least of all when that woman was his fascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walking rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist, Jimmie Drexell.
"How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hate these rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in a temper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive. But I forget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willing slave again. I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if her affection depends on plenty of money and pleasure. Hang it all! Why is a man ever fool enough to get married?"