“And then what?”

“Then let the whole affair slide.”

“But that won’t help me to my theatre!” Rose Euclid said, pouting.  She was now decidedly less unhappy than her face pretended, because Edward Henry had reminded her of Sir John Pilgrim, and she had dreams of world-triumphs for herself and for Carlo Trent’s play.  She was almost glad to be rid of all the worry of the horrid little prospective theatre.

“I have bank-notes,” cooed Edward Henry, softly.

Her head sank.

Edward Henry rose in the incomparable yellow dressing-gown and walked to and fro a little, and then from his secret store he produced a bundle of notes, and counted out five tens and, coming behind Rose, stretched out his arm, and laid the treasure on the table in front of her under the brilliant chandelier.

“I don’t want you to feel you have anything against me,” he cooed still more softly.

Silence reigned.  Edward Henry resumed his chair, and gazed at Rose Euclid.  She was quite a dozen years older than his wife, and she looked more than a dozen years older.  She had no fixed home, no husband, no children, no regular situation.  She accepted the homage of young men, who were cleverer than herself save in one important respect.  She was always in and out of restaurants and hotels and express trains.  She was always committing hygienic indiscretions.  She could not refrain from a certain girlishness which, having regard to her years, her waist and her complexion, was ridiculous.  His wife would have been afraid of her and would have despised her, simultaneously.  She was coarsened by the continual gaze of the gaping public.  No two women could possibly be more utterly dissimilar than Rose Euclid and the cloistered Nellie....  And yet, as Rose Euclid’s hesitant fingers closed on the bank-notes with a gesture of relief, Edward Henry had an agreeable and kindly sensation that all women were alike, after all, in the need of a shield, a protection, a strong and generous male hand.  He was touched by the spectacle of Rose Euclid, as naive as any young lass when confronted by actual bank-notes; and he was touched also by the thought of Nellie and the children afar off, existing in comfort and peace, but utterly, wistfully, dependent on himself.

“And what about me?” growled Carlo Trent.

“You!”

The fellow was only a poet.  He negligently dropped him five fivers, his share of the option’s value.

Mr. Marrier said nothing, but his eye met Edward Henry’s, and in silence five fivers were meted out to Mr. Marrier also....  It was so easy to delight these persons who apparently seldom set eyes on real ready money.

“You might sign receipts, all of you, just as a matter of form,” said Edward Henry.

A little later the three associates were off.

“As we’re both in the hotel, Mr. Sachs,” said Edward Henry, “you might stay for a chat and a drink.”