denly he came and kissed her and the little face that nestled against her breast.
"It's all right, dear," he said, standing over her; "you won't be lonely now—now Dings is beginning to talk to you. And I can soon get something to do, you know. Soon . . . Easily . . . It's only a shock at first. But it will come all right. It's sure to come right. I will go out again as soon as I have rested, and find what can be done. For the present it's hard to think of anything . . ."
"It would be hard to leave these rooms," said Elizabeth; "but"
"There won't be any need of that—trust me."
"They are expensive."
Denton waved that aside. He began talking of the work he could do. He was not very explicit what it would be; but he was quite sure that there was something to keep them comfortably in the happy middle class, whose way of life was the only one they knew.
"There are three-and-thirty million people in London," he said: "some of them must have need of me."
"Some must."
"The trouble is. . . . Well—Bindon, that brown little old man your father wanted
