“Tell me,” Elfrida insisted gently; and looking attentively at his long, thin fingers Mr. Ticke then told her.  He told her tersely, it did not take long; and in the end he doubled up his hand and pulled a crumpled cuff down over it.  “To me,” he said, “a thing like that represents the worst of it.  When I look at that I feel capable of crime.  I don’t know whether you’ll understand, but the consideration of what my finer self suffers through sordidness of this sort sometimes makes me think that to rob a bank would be an act of virtue.”

“I understand,” said Elfrida.

“Washerwomen as a class are callous.  I suppose the alkalies they use finally penetrate to their souls.  I said to mine last Thursday, ‘But I must be clean, Mrs. Binkley!’ and the creature replied, ‘I don’t see at all, Mr. Ticks’ —­she has an odious habit of calling me Mr. Ticks—­’why you shouldn’t go dirty occasional.’  She seemed to think she had made a joke!”

“They live to be paid,” Elfrida said, with hard philosophy, and then she questioned him delicately about his play.  Could she induce him to show it to her, some day?  Her opinion was worth nothing really—­oh no, absolutely nothing—­but it would be a pleasure if Golightly were sure he didn’t mind.

Golightly found a difficulty in selecting phrases repressive enough to be artistic, in which to tell her that he would be delighted.

When Mr. Ticke came in that evening he found upon his dressing-table a thick square envelope addressed to him in Elfrida’s suggestive hand.  With his fingers and thumb he immediately detected a round hardness in one corner, and he took some pains to open the letter so that nothing should fall out.  He postponed the pleasure of reading it until he had carefully extracted the two ten-shilling pieces, divested them of their bits of tissue-paper, and put them in his waistcoat pocket.  Then he held the letter nearer to the candle and read:  “I have thought about this for a whole hour.  You must believe, please, that it is no vulgar impulse.  I acknowledge it to be a very serious liberty, and in taking it I rely upon not having misinterpreted the scope of the freedom which exists between us.  In Bohemia—­our country—­one may share one’s luck with a friend, n’est ce pas? I will not ask to be forgiven.”

“Nice girl,” said Mr. Golightly Ticke, taking off his boots.  He went to bed rather resentfully conscious of the difference there was in the benefactions of Miss Phyllis Fane.

Shortly after this Mr. Ticke’s own luck mended, and on two different occasions Elfrida found a bunch of daffodils outside her door in the morning, that made a mute and graceful acknowledgment of the financial bond Mr. Ticke did not dream of offering to materialize in any other way.  He felt his gratitude finely; it suggested to him a number of little directions in which he could make himself useful to Miss Bell, putting aside entirely the question of repayment.