“I suppose this must be our last evening together.”

“I suppose it must,” said Septimus.

“Are you quite sure you can afford all the money you’re leaving with me?”

“Of course.  It comes out of the bank.”

“I know that, you stupid,” she laughed.  “Where else could it come from unless you kept it in a stocking?  But the bank isn’t an unlimited gold-mine from which you can draw out as many handfuls as you want.”

Septimus knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

“People don’t get sovereigns out of gold-mines.  I wish they did.  They extract a bit of gold about the size of this pebble out of a ton of quartz.  I once bought shares in a gold-mine and there wasn’t any gold in it at all.  I always used to be buying things like that.  People sold them to me.  I was like Moses.”

“Moses?”

“Oh, not that Moses.  He could get anything out of anything.  He got water out of a rock.  I mean the son of the Vicar of Wakefield, who bought the green spectacles.”

“Oh,” said Emmy, who after the way of her generation had never heard of him.

“I don’t do it—­let people sell me things—­any more, now,” he said gravely.  “I seem to have got wise.  Perhaps it has come through having had to look after you.  I see things much clearer.”

He filled and lit another pipe and began to talk about Orion just visible over the shoulder of the cliff.  Emmy, whose interests were for the moment terrestrial, interrupted him: 

“There’s one thing I want you to see clearly, my dear, and that is that I owe you a frightful lot of money.  But I’m sure to get something to do when I’m back in London and then I can repay you by instalments.  Remember, I’m not going to rest until I pay you back.”

“I sha’n’t rest if you do,” said Septimus, nervously.  “Please don’t talk of it.  It hurts me.  I’ve done little enough in the world, God knows.  Give me this chance of—­the Buddhists call it ‘acquiring merit.’”

This was not a new argument between them.  Emmy had a small income under her father’s will, and the prospect of earning a modest salary on the stage.  She reckoned that she would have sufficient to provide for herself and the child.  Hitherto Septimus had been her banker.  Neither of them had any notion of the value of money, and Septimus had a child’s faith in the magic of the drawn check.  He would as soon have thought of measuring the portion of whisky he poured out for a guest as of counting the money he advanced to Emmy.

She took up his last words, and speaking in a low tone, as a woman does when her pride has gone from her, she said: 

“Haven’t you acquired enough merit already, my dear?  Don’t you see the impossibility of my going on accepting things from you?  You seem to take it for granted that you’re to provide for me and the child for the rest of our lives.  I’ve been a bad, unprincipled fool of a girl, I know—­yes, rotten bad; there are thousands like me in London—­”