‘I don’t mind receipting it for two hundred and thirty,’ she said, as she handed it to him.

Hyacinth was completely awakened by this:  the joke was growing serious.  So he at once roused up the bully in him, and ordered her out of his rooms.  But she smiled at his threats, and still held out her account.  At last he tried coaxing:  he even had the insolence to beg her, by the memory of the past they had shared together, to spare him.  He assured her that she had vastly overrated his profits, that fame meant far more cry than wool:  that, in short, he was up to the neck in difficulties as it was, and really had nothing like that sum in his possession.

‘Very well, then,’ she replied at last, ’you must marry me instead.  Either the money or the marriage.  Personally, I prefer the money’—­Rondel’s egoism twinged like a hollow tooth—­’and if you think you can escape me and do neither, look at this!’ and she drew a revolver from her pocket.

‘They are all loaded,’ she added.  ‘Now, which is it to be?’

Rondel made a movement as if to snatch the weapon from her, but she sprang back and pointed it at his head.

‘If you move, I fire.’

Now one would not need to be a minor poet to be a coward under such circumstances.  Rondel could see that Annette meant what she said.  She was clearly a desperate woman, with no great passion for life.  To shoot him and then herself would be a little thing in the present state of her feelings.  Like most poets, he was a prudent man—­he hesitated, leaning with closed fist upon the table.  She stood firm.

‘Come,’ she said at length, ’which is it to be—­the revolver, marriage, or the money?’ She ominously clicked the trigger, ‘I give you five minutes.’

It was five minutes to eleven.  The clock ticked on while the two still stood in their absurdly tragic attitudes—­he still hesitating, she with her pistol in line with the brain that laid the golden verse.  The clock whirred before striking the hour.  Annette made a determined movement.  Hyacinth looked up; he saw she meant it, all the more for the mocking indifference of her expression.

‘Once more—­death, marriage, or the money?’

The clock struck.

‘The money,’ gasped the poet.

* * * * *

But Annette still kept her weapon in line.

‘Your cheque-book!’ she said.  Rondel obeyed.

’Pay Miss Annette Jones, or order, the sum of two hundred and thirty pounds.  No, don’t cross it!’

Rondel obeyed.

‘Now, toss it over to me.  You observe I still hold the pistol.’

Rondel once more obeyed.  Then, still keeping him under cover of the ugly-looking tube, she backed towards the door.

‘Good-bye,’ she said.  ‘Be sure I shall look out for your next volume.’

Rondel, bewildered as one who had lived through a fairy-tale, sank into his chair.  Did such ridiculous things happen?  He turned to his cheque-book.  Yes, there was the counterfoil, fresh as a new wound, from which indeed his bank account was profusely bleeding.