"I am a beast, a beast!"

    She poured out his tea unimpressed.

    "This is the last time, Stella, the very last time. I resolved as I was dressing this morning that never again would a wineglass touch my lips. Was I unusually stupid? I didn't dismiss the servants, did I?"

    "They've gone," she said.

    He groaned.

    "Perhaps I could see them," he said eagerly. "I think I could put things right with Nellie. She was not a bad girl, though she did lose my gold studs. I'll go down and explain, and we'll have them all up by lunch-time, my love. I can't allow you to do the housework."

    "Nellie came for her box this morning," said the girl in a matter-of-fact tone, "and I made the same suggestion to her. She says she wouldn't come back if I paid her a million a year. I didn't offer it to her."

    "Did I—did I call her names?" he asked guiltily.

    She nodded and pushed the marmalade towards him.

    "Have you any money? I want to go shopping," she said.

    He shifted uneasily in his chair.

    "I'm afraid I haven't," he said. "I went into Beverley yesterday morning after you had gone and made one or two purchases—"

    "I know," Stella interrupted calmly. "You left exactly half a bottle, which I poured down the sink."

    "You shouldn't have done that, my dear," he murmured. "It is poisonous stuff, but it is good to have in the house in case of sudden sickness."

    Kenneth Nelson, on such occasions as these, invariably presupposed the outbreak of some malady which could only be cured by the liberal application of whisky.

    "If we're sick we'll send for Dr. Grannitt," said the girl briskly. "Are you sure you have no money, Father?"

    "I have a few shillings." He put his hand in his pocket and produced a handful of loose silver. "I shall want that," he said hastily. "I get my cheque from the dealers today. Why it hasn't come this morning I don't know. These dealers are most unbusiness-like."

    "The cheque came last week," she said, without heat. "You took the letter from the maid and asked her not to tell me anything about it. She told me that yesterday, amongst other things."

    He groaned again.

    "I'm a spendthrift, I'm a wastrel," he wailed. "I drove your poor mother into her grave by my beastliness. You know I did, Stella."

    In such moments of self-abnegation he found pleasure in the exposure of his weakness. That it might hurt his daughter did not occur to him. He himself derived such complete satisfaction in his role of flagellant that he could not imagine she did not share his painful pleasure.

    "Don't," she said almost sharply, and returned instantly to the money question. "I must have some money, Father. The maids are coming up for their wages today. Or, to be more exact, I promised to send it down to them."

    He was hunched up in his chair, an injured, brooding man.

    "I'll make a start on that Pygmalion today," he said. "It will take some while to do, and it will be a long time before I get the money. These infernal dealers—"

    He had started on the Pygmalion three years before, but had not been quite in the mood ever since. Stella had given up engaging models for him and accepted the announcement that a start was to be made upon the great picture with the same indifference as she received his penitence.

    He brightened up as a thought occurred to him and leant across the table, dropping his voice to a confidential tone.

    "I suppose, Stella, you couldn't get—You remember the money you got when that wretched jam manufacturer sued me for the money he had deposited—as if I could paint a picture to order! I was never a tradesman, dear.