If you tot all this up, you will find it has now reached the not

inconsiderable sum of fifteen shillings and tenpence. This is how the

rich person like Celia lives. There still remains a balance of four

shillings and twopence to be expended on clothing, bus fares, insurance

and amusement. Quite an adequate--indeed, an ample sum. At any rate, it

seemed so to Celia, who, at present, was well set up with clothes, and

found sufficient amusement in the novelty of her life and her

surroundings; for, only a few months back, she had been living in

comfort and middle-class luxury, with a larger sum for pocket-money than

had now to suffice for the necessaries of existence.

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The kettle was boiling, she set the tea; and while she was arranging in

a vase--"Given away with every half-pound of our choice Congo!"--the

penny bunch of violets which she had been unable to resist, her lips

were moving to the strains of the hackneyed but ever beautiful

intermezzo in "Cavalleria Rusticana," which floated up from the room

immediately underneath hers; but as she drew her chair up to the fire,

the music of the violin ceased, and presently she heard footsteps

ascending the stairs slowly. There came a knock at the door, and she

opened it to an old man with a frame so attenuated that it appeared to

be absolutely fleshless. His hair was white and almost touching his

shoulders, and his face so colourless and immobile that it looked as if

it were composed of wax; but the dark eyes under the white, shaggy brows

were full of life, and piercing.

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Clendon!" said Celia, in the tone a woman uses

when she is really pleased, and not affecting to be pleased, at the

advent of a visitor. "Come in."

"Thank you, Miss Grant," said the old man, in a peculiar voice that was

quite low and yet strangely vibrant, like the note of a muted violin. "I

have come to ask you if you could oblige me with a couple of pieces of

sugar. I have run out, and somehow--one has one's foolish weaknesses--I

dislike my tea without sugar."

"Why of course," said Celia, with a touch of eagerness. "But--but won't

you come in and have your tea with me?"

The old man shook his head; but his eyes, taking in the comfort of the

tiny, fire-lit room, the aspect of home, grew wistful; besides, there

was a note of entreaty in the invitation; and "Thank you," he said,

simply.




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