"I should like it of all things," said Mr. Sutcliffe, with a mock, mendacious smile, "but I want to work at an article for the Quarterly."
"So," said Marcelle rising, "you will leave the poor old witch to starve, and you will be embarrassed with questions about her at the Last Day, all on account of an article for one of your wretched English reviews, with no real science or thought in them. I should like you to hear what they think of your reviews in Germany." She walked to the window flushed with her protest, and leaning out pulled at the petals of the blush roses growing on the wall. She was dressed in some rough white stuff that suited her. George Sutcliffe rose and followed.
"It may make little difference to the world of thought," he said, standing behind her, "but it makes a difference of £40 to me."
Marcelle turned round delighted. "Tiens, comme c'est Anglais, you are the most material people; fancy Paul remembering £40,—ah, mais c'est trop fort, another £40 to you is to mean another day's starvation to the witch."
"I wish you could just send her something, and let me do my work," said Mr. Sutcliffe weakly.
"Send!" she cried, "why it is twelve miles off at the least; besides, it is so beautiful, I have wanted for so long to see that valley."
"And Miss Fairfax is to walk twelve miles?" he said.
"No, no, that won't do; of course we must take the donkey for her to ride, and the donkey will do instead of you to carry the lunch."
"Thank you; then as there is another donkey, I may stay and finish my article."
"No, no, did I say anything like that? so very polite—I beg your pardon——" she held out some roses to him—"take these and forgive."
"Yes, if I may stay at home," he said, holding out his hand.
