“Oh, what’s the use of beginning that; can’t you see I’m done up?” he said petulantly.

“I don’t wonder; the way you live is enough to do any one up, as you call it; it’s intolerable!” she cried.

“What does it matter to you?”

“It makes a brute of you; it’s killing you!”

“The sooner the better,” he said.

“For you, perhaps; but what about me?”

“Don’t you ever think of any one but yourself?” he sneered.

“Is that the way it impresses you?” she asked coldly.

She slipped into the chair opposite him and began slowly to draw off her gloves.  Langham was silent for a minute or two; he gazed intently at her and by degrees the hard steely glitter faded from his heavy bloodshot eyes.  Fascinated, his glance dwelt upon her; nothing of her fresh beauty was lost on him; the smooth curve of her soft white throat, the alluring charm of her warm sensuous lips, the tiny dimple that came and went when she smiled, the graceful pliant lines of her figure, the rare poise of her small head—­his glance observed all.  For better or for worse he loved her with whatever of the man there was in him; he might hate her in some sudden burst of fierce anger because of her shallowness, her greed, her utter selfishness; but he loved her always, he could never be wholly free from the spell her beauty had cast over him.

[Illustration:  Why, what’s the matter, Marsh?]

“Look here, Evelyn,” he said at last.  “What’s the use of going on in this way, why can’t we get back to some decent understanding?” He was hungry for tenderness from her; acute physical fear was holding him in its grip.  He leaned back in his chair and found support for his head.  “You’re right,” he went on, “I can’t stand this racket much longer—­this work and worry; we are living beyond our means; we’ll have to slow up, get down to a more sane basis.”  The words came from his blue lips in jerky disjointed sentences.  “What’s the use, it’s too much of a struggle!  I do a thousand things I don’t want to do, shady things in my practice, things no reputable lawyer should stoop to, and all to make a few dollars to throw away.  I tell you, I am sick of it!  Why can’t we be as other people, reasonable and patient—­that’s the thing, to be patient, and just bide our time.  We can’t live like millionaires on my income, what’s the use of trying—­I tell you we are fools!”

“Are matters so desperate with us?” Evelyn asked.  “And is it all my fault?”

“I can’t do anything to pull up unless you help, me,” Langham said.

“Well, are matters so desperate?” she repeated.

He did not answer her at once.

“Bad enough,” he replied at length and was silent.