Selwyn, who invariably ran up to see his wife immediately on his return from no matter how long or how tiring a round of professional visits, bit his lip.

“I come as often as I can, Minnie,” he said patiently.  “You must remember my time is not my own.”

“No, dear, of course not.  And I expect that outside patients are much more interesting to visit than one’s own wife,” with a disagreeable little laugh.

“They mean bread-and-butter, anyway,” said Selwyn bluntly.

“Of course they do.”  She turned to Sara.  “Dick always thinks in terms of bread-and-butter, Miss Tennant,” she said sneeringly.  “But money means little enough to any one with my poor health.  Beyond procuring me a few alleviations, there is nothing it can do for me.”

Sara was privately of the opinion that it had done a good deal for her.  Looking round the luxuriously furnished room with its blazing fire, and then at Mrs. Selwyn herself, elegantly clad in a rest-gown of rich silk, she could better understand the poverty-stricken appearance of the rest of the house, Dick’s shabby clothes, and his willingness to receive a paying guest whose contribution towards the housekeeping might augment his slender income.

Here, then, was where his hard-earned guineas went—­to keep in luxury this petulant, complaining woman whose entire thoughts were centred about her own bodily comfort, and whom Patrick Lovell, with his lucid recognition of values, would have contemptuously described as “a parasite woman, m’dear—­the kind of female I’ve no use for.”

“Oh, Dick”—­Mrs. Selwyn had been turning over the pages of a price-list that was lying on her knee—­“I see the World’s Store have just brought out a new kind of adjustable reading-table.  It’s a much lighter make than the one I have.  I think I should find it easier to use.”

Selwyn’s face clouded.

“How much does it cost, dear?” he asked nervously.  “These mechanical contrivances are very expensive, you know.”

“Oh, this one isn’t.  It’s only five guineas.”

“Five guineas is rather a lot of money, Minnie,” he said gravely.  “Couldn’t you manage with the table you have for a bit longer?”

Mrs. Selwyn tossed the price-list pettishly on to the floor.

“Of, of course!” she declared.  “That’s always the way.  ’Can’t I manage with what I have?  Can’t I make do with this, that, and the other?’ I believe you grudge every penny you spend on me!” she wound up acrimoniously.

A dull red crept into Selwyn’s face.

“You know it’s not that, Minnie,” he replied in a painfully controlled voice.  “It’s simply that I can’t afford these things.  I give you everything I can.  If I were only a rich man, you should have everything you want.”