younger's last entrenchment. 'Poor, poor Susan!' Miss Amy had said to herself as her cousin came into the room; and a moment later she brought out, for very pity, her appeal. 'What then is yours?'
'My idea?' It was clearly, at last, a vague comfort to Miss Susan to be asked. Yet her answer was desolate. 'Oh, it's no use!'
'But how do you know?'
'Why, I tried it—ten days ago, and I thought at first it had answered. But it hasn't.'
'He's back again?'
Wan, tired, Miss Susan gave it up. 'Back again.'
Miss Amy, after one of the long, odd looks that had now become their most frequent form of intercourse, thought it over. 'And just the same?'
'Worse.'
'Dear!' said Miss Amy, clearly knowing what that meant. 'Then what did you do?'
Her friend brought it roundly out. 'I made my sacrifice.'
Miss Amy, though still more deeply interrogative, hesitated. 'But of what?'
'Why, of my little all—or almost.'
The 'almost' seemed to puzzle Miss Amy, who, moreover, had plainly no clue to the property or attribute so described. 'Your "little all"?'
'Twenty pounds.'
'Money?' Miss Amy gasped.
Her tone produced on her companion's part a wonder as great as her own. 'What then is it yours to give?'
'My idea? It's not to give!' cried Amy Frush.
At the finer pride that broke out in this poor Susan's blankness flushed. 'What then is it to do?'
But Miss Amy's bewilderment outlasted her reproach. 'Do you mean he takes money?'
'The Chancellor of the Exchequer does—for "conscience."'
