Ida took the sheet of paper and added it up, with the result that she discovered both totals to be wrong.  Harold, watching her, wondered at the nerve of a woman who, after going through such a scene as that which had just occurred, could deliberately add up long rows of badly-written figures.

And this money which her father was expending so cheerfully was part of the price for which she had bound herself.

With a sigh he rose, said good-night, and went home with feelings almost too mixed to admit of accurate description.  He had taken a great step in his life, and to a certain extent that step had succeeded.  He had not altogether built his hopes upon sand, for from what Ida had said, and still more from what she had tacitly admitted, it was necessarily clear to him that she did more or less regard him as a man would wish to be regarded by a woman whom he dearly loved.  This was a great deal, more indeed than he had dared to believe, but then, as is usually the case in this imperfect world, where things but too often seem to be carefully arranged at sixes and sevens, came the other side of the shield.  Of what use to him was it to have won this sweet woman’s love, of what use to have put this pure water of happiness to his lips in the desert of his lonely life, only to see the cup that held it shattered at a blow?  To him the story of the money loan—­in consideration of which, as it were, Ida had put herself in pawn, as the Egyptians used to put the mummies of their fathers in pawn—­was almost incredible.  To a person of his simple and honourable nature, it seemed a preposterous and unheard of thing that any man calling himself a gentleman should find it possible to sink so low as to take such advantage of a woman’s dire necessity and honourable desire to save her father from misery and her race from ruin, and to extract from her a promise of marriage in consideration of value received.  Putting aside his overwhelming personal interest in the matter, it made his blood boil to think that such a thing could be.  And yet it was, and what was more, he believed he knew Ida well enough to be convinced that she would not shirk the bargain.  If Edward Cossey came forward to claim his bond it would be paid down to the last farthing.  It was a question of thirty thousand pounds; the happiness of his life and of Ida’s depended upon a sum of money.  If the money were forthcoming, Cossey could not claim his flesh and blood.  But where was it to come from?  He himself was worth perhaps ten thousand pounds, or with the commutation value of his pension, possibly twelve, and he had not the means of raising a farthing more.  He thought the position over till he was tired of thinking, and then with a heavy heart and yet with a strange glow of happiness shining through his grief, like sunlight through a grey sky, at last he went to sleep and dreamed that Ida had gone from him, and that he was once more utterly alone in the world.