And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He

arguing "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a little

sorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket,

appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long as

possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already doomed luxury. There

was really no hurry for a few days. Always time enough to vanish. And,

with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard for

appearances surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently at the

last, Eliza." But there was no softness in the sallow face under the

gala effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed

eyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you

say then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, very

determined that there should be no more of that boy and girl philandering

since the object of it was gone; angry with herself for having suffered

from it so much in the past, furious at its having been all in vain.

But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was

the good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as

there was some money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go away. We

shall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I want to be alone

for a bit." He went away, sulkily acquiescent. There was a room always

kept ready for him on the same floor, at the further end of a short

thickly carpeted passage.

How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her

through the hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn't like to say.

It ended at last; and this strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose

name would never be known to the Official Receiver, came down to

breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection. From the very first,

somehow, she had accepted the fatal news for true. All her life she had

never believed in her luck, with that pessimism of the passionate who at

bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of a morally restrained

universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening the morning

paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. The

Orb had suspended payment--the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but

to the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was

not indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The

serious paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always

maintained an attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of banks,

had its "manner." Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on

another page, a special financial article in a hostile tone beginning

with the words "We have always feared" and a guarded, half-column leader,

opening with the phrase: "It is a deplorable sign of the times" what was,

in effect, an austere, general rebuke to the absurd infatuations of the

investing public. She glanced through these articles, a line here and a

line there--no more was necessary to catch beyond doubt the murmur of the

oncoming flood. Several slighting references by name to de Barral

revived her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of

unforeseen moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . "




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