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void—brought to her by some housemaid of the air upon a silver tray—she gave herself up to it. This was the image of a solitary cup of tea carried up to her, with her letters, by Emma the cook, during a paradisiac holiday, when Philip—such was Tilly's furthest reach of felicity—had gone to stay for a whole fortnight with Aunt Elizabeth, at that pleasant seaside place!
    But what was this? What words of fatal significance had fallen from the lips of Mr. Didlington? By what incantation had this roomful of grown-up people been incontinently jerked upon their feet, protesting, exclaiming, jeering, enquiring, denouncing, arguing; and by no means speaking gently of their Grandfather Crow who, for all that he was one of the chief causes of their being alive upon the earth, seemed to have turned into a deliberate enemy?
    “Does it mean that none of us get a penny—not even Philip?” whispered Mary to John.
    “Not a penny,” the man from Paris answered. “And what's more, Mary, I'll have to borrow ten shillings from you to get to Glastonbury.”
    “You'll want more than that,” she returned gravely.
    “No, I shan't. I'm going to walk. Ten shillings is what I want. Not more, not less. But I want it from you and you'd better give it me now if you've got your purse; for they're terribly excited and it's best to be on the safe side.”
    Mary fixed a very straight look upon him at this. But seeing that he was perfectly serious she moved back a little towards the window and nodded to him to follow her.
    “How much money have you got left?” Mary whispered. He searched his pockets thoroughly and produced three shillings and fourpence. This sum he held out to her in his two hands as if she had demanded it of him. She shook her head. “Put it back,” she said. “I'd better get some more for you. You can't walk all that way.* I'm sure Aunt Elizabeth------”
    He pulled her nearer to him, interrupting her words. The massive green curtain on the left of the window—for the winter curtains had not been changed yet—hung in bulging folds against his shoulder. Mary long afterward remembered how exactly like a certain Venetian picture she had seen somewhere his refined rogue's face looked against that background. “I'm not going to take a penny from anybody but you!” he whispered fiercely, with a malicious gleam in his eye. “I'll find you out at Glastonbury in a week or so—not longer than two weeks anyway—and then we'll see. I may sponge upon you like the devil then” he added, giving the girl a quick, searching look. “I have sponged on girls before. It's a way of life that seems to suit me!”
    Mary showed her strong white teeth in a schoolgirl grin. Turning her back to the room she drew out her purse and took from it three half-crowns, a florin and a sixpence. “Miss Drew,” she remarked, “doesn't pay very much. Philip doesn't give tips either. Aunt Elizabeth gave me this for pocket-money.”
    It would have been clear enough to any close observer that Mary derived an exultant happiness from handing over her pocket-money to John in this childish manner. It would also have been clear that John's feelings were equally those of a romantic lover and a sly, unscrupulous tramp.
    “I'll ask Aunt Elizabeth if you can't sleep here tonight,” whispered Mary, as they turned away from the darkening window.
    He made a wry face at her. “Don't you dare!” he breathed. “I've got more than three shillings without touching your ten and I've left my bag at the Inn. I'll make them give me a room and breakfast for two nights for that—you'll see! I want to go with you to the big river tomorrow. We never went there together.”
    Mary got red with excitement. “We did, John! You've forgotten but I remember. We did just once!”
    Their dialogue was interrupted by Philip's voice which was not raised, but which was lowered to such a key of indrawn intensity that it compelled attention.
    He was now standing with his back to the