This was not a cheerful outlook with which to begin three years of penniless matrimony.  Royal, suavely smiling, and smoking on the terrace, wondered suddenly if old Madame Carter, who had always been his champion, would help out.

But Richard seemed to read his thought.

“Nina has appealed to her grandmother,” he said, “and I know my mother sympathizes, and would be glad to help you.  But her affairs are in my hands.  She preferred it so, when I offered her some securities years ago, and it has always been so.  Her bank account receives a monthly check; she sends all her household bills to my secretary, Fox.  He O. K’s and pays them.  Consequently, she is not able to act in this matter, and I think she is glad of it!  I believe she would regret the—­the inevitable estrangement as much as I.”

Blondin elevated his eyebrows politely, as one interested but not concerned.  But he knew, with a sort of rage, that he was beaten.  His only recourse now would be to plead to Nina an all-important wire from the Pacific coast, a dying friend, a temporary absence.  He could sub-let his studio for twice the rent, and live on the margin until kindly Fate, as always, turned up a new card.  Nina would protest, would weep that her beloved studio, where her first exciting housekeeping was to begin, was occupied by strangers, but that was unavoidable.  However, he would annoy this gray-eyed, firm-lipped business man first.

But Richard had taken a small slip of tan paper from his pocket, and was studying it thoughtfully.  Royal saw it, and his eyes narrowed.

“Now, Mr. Blondin,” Nina’s father said, simply, “I’m a business man.  I can’t beat about the bush, and call things by pretty names.  I want a favour of you, and I’m willing to pay for it.  I telephoned you this morning that I wanted to see you on a matter of business.  This is my proposition.”

He leaned forward, and Royal saw the paper.  He boasted to women of his indifference to money, it was true, but as with all adventurers, it held first place in his thoughts.  No man who was in debt could look upon that check unmoved.  Royal might win at cards to-night, to be sure; Carter might weaken to-morrow, it was true.  But this check bore his name, and it was sure.

To enter the bank, with Richard Carter’s check for so substantial an amount, to deposit it, exchange a careless word with the cashier, to write his check for the overdue rent, with a casual apology; to play bridge again, this evening, with young Bellamy, and this time win back that accursed check of his own, as he knew he would win it. ...

It all fluttered before his eyes, despite his attempt to look indifferent.  It weighed down the little tarnished thing he called his pride, already half-forfeited in this group.  His last attempt at bravado was obviously that, and he knew it.