Lucian swooped down upon the humble dwelling in which his less fortunate fellow resided, like an angel who came to destroy rather than to save. He took everything into his own hands, as soon as the field of operations lay open to him, and it was quite ten minutes before Sprats, by delicate finesse, managed to shut him up in one room with the invalid, while she and the wife talked practical matters in another. At the end of an hour she got him safely away from the house. He was in a pleasurable state of mind; the situation had been full of charm to him, and he walked out into the street gloating over the fact that the sick man and his wife and children were now fed and warmed and made generally comfortable, and had money in the purse wherewith to keep the wolf from the door for many days. His imagination had seized upon the misery which the unlucky couple must have endured before help came in their way: he conjured up the empty pocket, the empty cupboard, the blank despair that comes from lack of help and sympathy, the heart sickness which springs from the powerlessness to hope any longer. He had read of these things but had never seen them: he only realised what they meant when he looked at the faces of the sick man and his wife as he and Sprats left them. Striding away at Sprats’s side, his head drooping towards his chest and his hands plunged in his pockets, Lucian ruminated upon these things and became so keenly impressed by them that he suddenly paused and uttered a sharp exclamation.

‘By George, Sprats!’ he said, standing still and staring at her as if he had never seen her before, ‘what an awful thing poverty must be! Did that ever strike you?’

‘Often,’ answered Sprats, with laconic alacrity, ‘as it might have struck you, too, if you’d kept your eyes open.’

‘I am supposed to have excellent powers of observation,’ he said musingly, ‘but somehow I don’t think I ever quite realised what poverty meant until to-night. I wonder what it would be like to try it for a while—to go without money and food and have no hope?—but, of course, one couldn’t do it—one would always know that one could go back to one’s usual habits, and so on. It would only be playing at being poor. I wonder, now, where the exact line would be drawn between the end of hope and the beginning of despair?—that’s an awfully interesting subject, and one that I should like to follow up. Don’t you think——’

‘Lucian,’ said Sprats, interrupting him without ceremony, ‘are we going to stand here at the street corner all night while you moon about abstract questions? Because if you are, I’m not.’

Lucian came out of his reverie and examined his surroundings. He had come to a halt at a point where the Essex Road is transected by the New North Road, and he gazed about him with the expression of a traveller who has wandered into strange regions.

‘This is a quarter of the town which I do not know,’ he said. ‘Not very attractive, is it? Let us walk on to those lights—I suppose we can find a hansom there, and then we can get back to civilisation.’

They walked forward in the direction of Islington High Street: round about the Angel there was life and animation and a plenitude of bright light; Lucian grew interested, and finally asked a policeman what part of the town he found himself in. On hearing that that was Islington he was immediately reminded of the ‘Bailiff’s Daughter’ and began to recall lines of it. But Islington and old ballads were suddenly driven quite out of his thoughts by an object which had no apparent connection with poetry.

Sprats, keeping her eyes open for a hansom, suddenly missed Lucian from her side, and turned to find him gazing at the windows of a little cafÉ-restaurant with an Italian name over its door and a suspicion of Continental cookery about it. She turned back to him: he looked at her as a boy might look whose elder sister catches him gazing into the pastry-cook’s window.

‘I say, Sprats,’ he said coaxingly, ‘let’s go in there and have supper. It’s clean, and I’ve suddenly turned faint—I’ve had nothing since lunch. Dinner will be all over now at home, and besides, we’re miles away. I’ve been in these places before—they’re all right, really, something like the ristoranti in Italy, you know.’

Sprats was hungry too. She glanced at the little cafÉ—it appeared to be clean enough to warrant one in eating, at any rate, a chop in it.

‘I think I should like some food,’ she said.

‘Come on, then,’ said Lucian gaily. ‘Let’s see what sort of place it is.’

He pushed open the swinging doors and entered. It was a small place, newly established, and the proprietor and his wife, two Italians, and their Swiss waiter were glad to see customers who looked as if they would need something more than a cup of coffee and a roll and butter. The proprietor bowed himself double and ushered them to the most comfortable corner in his establishment: he produced a lengthy menu and handed it to Lucian with great empressement; the waiter stood near, deeply interested; the proprietor’s wife, gracious of figure and round of face, leaned over the counter thinking of the coins which she would eventually deposit in her cash drawer. Lucian addressed the proprietor in Italian and discussed the menu with him; while they talked, Sprats looked about her, wondering at the red plush seats, the great mirrors in their gilded frames, and the jars of various fruits and conserves arranged on the counter. Every table was adorned with a flowering plant fashioned out of crinkled paper; the ceiling was picked out in white and gold; the Swiss waiter’s apron and napkin were very stiffly starched; the proprietor wore a frock coat, which fitted very tightly at the waist, and his wife’s gown was of a great smartness. Sprats decided that they were early customers in the history of the establishment—besides themselves there were only three people in the place: an old gentleman with a napkin tucked into his neckband, who was eating his dinner and reading a newspaper propped up against a bottle, and a pair of obvious lovers who were drinking cafÉ-au-lait in a quiet corner to the accompaniment of their own murmurs.

‘I had no idea that I was so hungry,’ said Lucian when he and the proprietor had finally settled upon what was best to eat and drink. ‘I am glad I saw this place: it reminds me in some ways of Italy. I say, I don’t believe those poor people had had much to eat to-day, Sprats—it is a most fortunate thing that I happened to hear of them. My God! I wouldn’t like to get down to that stage—it must be dreadful, especially when there are children.’

Sprats leaned her elbows on the little table, propped her chin in her hands, and looked at him with a curious expression which he did not understand. A half-dreamy, half-speculative look came into her eyes.

‘I wonder what you would do if you did get down to that stage?’ she said, with a rather quizzical smile.

Lucian stared at her.

‘I? Why, what do you mean?’ he said. ‘I suppose I should do as other men do.’

‘It would be for the first time in your life, then,’ she answered. ‘I fancy seeing you do as other men do in any circumstances.’

‘But I don’t think I could conceive myself at such a low ebb as that,’ he said.

Sprats still stared at him with a speculative expression.

‘Lucian,’ she said suddenly, ‘do you ever think about the future? Everything has been made easy for you so far; does it ever strike you that fortune is in very truth a fickle jade, and that she might desert you?’

He looked at her as a child looks who is requested to face an unpleasant contingency.

‘I don’t think of unpleasant things,’ he answered. ‘What’s the good? And why imagine possibilities which aren’t probabilities? There is no indication that fortune is going to desert me.’

‘No,’ said Sprats, ‘but she might, and very suddenly too. Look here, Lucian; I’ve the right to play grandmother always, haven’t I, and there’s something I want to put before you plainly. Don’t you think you are living rather carelessly and extravagantly?’

Lucian knitted his brows and stared at her.

‘Explain,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I don’t think it wants much explanation. You don’t bother much about money matters, do you?’

He looked at her somewhat pityingly.

‘How can I do that and attend to my work?’ he asked. ‘I could not possibly be pestered with things of that sort.’

‘Very well,’ said Sprats, ‘and Haidee doesn’t bother about them either. Therefore, no one bothers. I know your plan, Lucian—it’s charmingly simple. When Lord Simonstower left you that ten thousand pounds you paid it into a bank, didn’t you, and to it you afterwards added Haidee’s two thousand when you were married. Twice a year Mr. Robertson pays your royalties into your account, and the royalties from your tragedy go to swell it as well. That’s one side of the ledger. On the other side you and Haidee each have a cheque-book, and you draw cheques as you please and for what you please. That’s all so, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ answered Lucian, regarding her with amazement, ‘of course it is; but just think what a very simple arrangement it is.’

‘Admirably simple,’ Sprats replied, laughing, ‘so long as there is an inexhaustible fund to draw upon. But seriously, Lucian, haven’t you been drawing on your capital? Do you know, at this moment, what you are worth?—do you know how you stand?’

‘I don’t suppose that I do,’ he answered. ‘But why all this questioning? I know that Robertson pays a good deal into my account twice a year, and the royalties from the tragedy were big, you know.’

‘But still, Lucian, you’ve drawn off your capital,’ she urged. ‘You have spent just what you pleased ever since you left Oxford, and Haidee spends what she pleases. You must have spent a lot on your Italian tour last year, and you are continually running over to Paris. You keep up an expensive establishment; you indulge expensive tastes; you were born, my dear Lucian, with the instincts of an epicure in everything.’

‘And yet I am enjoying a supper in an obscure little cafÉ!’ he exclaimed laughingly. ‘There’s not much extravagance here.’

‘You may gratify epicurean tastes by a sudden whim to be Spartan-like,’ answered Sprats. ‘I say that you have the instincts of an epicure, and you have so far gratified them. You’ve never known what it was, Lucian, to be refused anything, have you? No: well, that naturally inclines you to the opinion that everything will always be made easy for you. Now supposing you lost your vogue as a poet—oh, there’s nothing impossible about it, my dear boy!—the public are as fickle as fortune herself—and supposing your next tragedy does not catch the popular taste—ah, and that’s not impossible either—what are you going to do? Because, Lucian, you must have dipped pretty heavily into your capital, and if you want some plain truths from your faithful Sprats, you spend a great deal more than you earn. Now give me another potato, and tell me plainly if you know how much your royalties amounted to last year and how much you and Haidee spent.’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Lucian. ‘I could tell by asking my bankers. Of course I have spent a good deal of money in travel, and in books, and in pictures, and in furnishing a house—could I have laid out Lord Simonstower’s legacy in better fashion? And I do earn large sums—I had a small fortune out of Domitia, you know.’

‘There is no doubt,’ she replied, ‘that you have had enough money to last you for all the rest of your life if it had been wisely invested.’

‘Do you mean to say that I have no investments?’ he said, half angrily. ‘Why, I have thousands of pounds invested in pictures, books, furniture, and china—my china alone is worth two thousand.’

‘Dear boy, I don’t doubt it,’ she answered soothingly, ‘but you know it doesn’t produce any interest. I like you to have pretty things about you, but you have precious little modesty in your mighty brain, and you sometimes indulge tastes which only a millionaire ought to possess.’

‘Well,’ he said, sighing, ‘I suppose there’s a moral at the end of the sermon. What is it, Sprats? You are a brick, of course—in your way there’s nobody like you, but when you are like this you make me think of mustard-plaisters.’

‘The moral is this,’ she answered: ‘come down from the clouds and cultivate a commercial mind for ten minutes. Find out exactly what you have in the way of income, and keep within it. Tell Haidee exactly how much she has to spend.’

‘You forget,’ he said, ‘that Haidee has two thousand pounds of her own. It’s a very small fortune, but it’s hers.’

‘Had, you mean, not has,’ replied Sprats. ‘Haidee must have spent her small fortune twice over, if not thrice over.’

‘It would be an unkind thing to be mean with her,’ said Lucian, with an air of wise reflection. ‘If Haidee had married Darlington she would have had unlimited wealth at her disposal; as she preferred to throw it all aside and marry me, I can’t find it in me to deny her anything. No, Sprats—poor little Haidee must have her simple pleasures even if I have to deny myself of my own.’

‘Oh, did you ever hear such utter rot!’ Sprats exclaimed. ‘Catch you denying yourself of anything! Dear boy, don’t be an ass—it’s bad form. And Haidee’s pleasures are not simple.’

‘They are simple in comparison with what they might have been if she had married Darlington,’ he said.

‘Then why didn’t she marry Darlington?’ inquired Sprats.

‘Because she married me,’ answered Lucian. ‘She gave up the millionaire for the struggling poet, as you might put it if you were writing a penny-dreadful. No; seriously, Sprats, I think there’s a good deal due to Haidee in that respect. I think she is really easily contented. When you come to think of it, we are not extravagant—we like pretty things and comfortable surroundings, but when you think of what some people do——’

‘Oh, you’re hopeless, Lucian!’ she said. ‘I wish you’d been sent out to earn your living at fifteen. Honour bright—you’re living in a world of dreams, and you’ll have a nasty awakening some day.’

‘I have given the outer world something of value from my world of dreams,’ he said, smiling at her.

‘You have written some very beautiful poetry, and you are a marvellously gifted man who ought to feel the responsibility of your gifts,’ she said gravely. ‘And all I want is to keep you, if I can, from the rocks on which you might come to grief. I’m sure that if you took my advice about business matters you would avoid trouble in the future. You’re too cock-sure, too easy-going, too thoughtless, Lucian, and this is a hard and a cruel world.’

‘It’s been a very pleasant world to me so far,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a care or a trouble; I’ve heaps of friends, and I’ve always got everything that I wanted. Why, it’s a very pleasant world! You, Sprats, have found it so, too.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have found it pleasant, but it is hard and cruel nevertheless, and one realises it sometimes when one least expects to. One may wake out of a dream to a very cruel reality.’

‘You speak as of a personal experience,’ he said smiling. ‘And yet I swear you never had one.’

‘I don’t want you to have one,’ she answered.

‘Is sermonising a cruel reality?’ he asked with a mock grimace.

‘No, it’s a necessary thing; and that reminds me that I have not quite finished mine. Look here, Lucian, here’s a straight question to you. Do you think it a good thing to be so very friendly with Mr. Darlington?’

Lucian dropped his knife and fork and stared at her in amazement.

‘Why on earth not?’ he said. ‘Darlington is an awfully good fellow. Of course, I know that he must have felt it when Haidee ran away with me, but he has been most kind to both of us—we have had jolly times on his yacht and at his Scotch place; and you know, Sprats, when you can’t afford things yourself it’s rather nice to have friends who can give them to you.’

‘Lucian, that’s a piece of worldliness that’s unworthy of you,’ she said. ‘Well, I can’t say anything against Mr. Darlington. He seems kind, and he is certainly generous and hospitable, but it is well known that he was very, very much in love with Haidee, and that he felt her loss a good deal.’

‘Yes, it was awfully hard on him,’ said Lucian, stroking his chin with a thoughtful air; ‘and of course that’s just why one feels that one ought to be nice to him. He and Haidee are great friends, and that’s far better than that he should cherish any bitter feelings against her because she preferred me to him.’

Sprats looked at him with the half-curious, half-speculative expression which had filled her eyes in the earlier stages of their conversation. They had now finished their repast, and she drew on her gloves.

‘I want to go home to my children,’ she said. ‘One of the babies has croup, and it was rather bad when I left. Pay the bill, Lucian, and get them to call a hansom.’

Lucian put his hands in his pockets, and uttered a sudden exclamation of dismay.

‘I haven’t any money,’ he said. ‘I left it all with poor Watson. Have you any?’

‘No,’ she answered, ‘of course I haven’t. You dragged me away in my dinner-dress, and it hasn’t even a pocket in it. What are you going to do?’

‘What an awkward predicament!’ said Lucian, searching every pocket. ‘I don’t know what to do—I haven’t a penny.’

‘Well, you must walk back to Mr. Watson’s and get some money there,’ said Sprats. ‘You will be back in ten minutes.’

‘What! borrow money from a man to whom I have just given it?’ he cried. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’

Sprats uttered an impatient exclamation.

‘Well, do something!’ she said. ‘We can’t sit here all night.’

Lucian summoned the proprietor and explained the predicament. The situation ended in a procession of two hansom cabs, in one of which rode Sprats and Lucian, in the other the Swiss waiter, who enjoyed a long drive westward and finally returned to the heights of Islington with the amount of the bill and a substantial gratuity in his pocket. As Sprats pointed out with force and unction, Lucian’s foolish pride in not returning to the Watsons and borrowing half a sovereign had increased the cost of their supper fourfold. But Lucian only laughed, and Sprats knew that the shillings thrown away were to him as things of no importance.