Jack explained briefly, in an appealing voice.

“I’m awfully sorry for your sake, dear,” he added.  “We are down to our last twenty-franc piece, but in another fortnight—­”

“Then you won’t take me?”

“How can I?  Don’t be unreasonable.”

“You promised, Jack.  And see, I am all ready.  I won’t stay at home!”

“Is it my fault, Diane?  Can I help it that Von Whele has left Paris?”

“You can help it that you have no money.  Oh, I wish I had not given up the stage!”

Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes.  She tore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor.  She threw herself on a couch.

“You deceived me!” she cried bitterly.  “You promised that I should want for nothing—­that you would always have plenty of money.  And this is how you keep your word!  You are selfish, unkind!  I hate you!”

She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry.  Words of the lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the Folies Bergere, fell from her lovely lips—­words that brought a blush of shame, a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack’s face.

“Diane,” he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.

Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms around his neck.

“Forgive me, Jack,” she whispered.

“I always do,” he sighed.

“And, please, please get some money—­now.”

“You know that I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.  You have lots of friends—­they won’t refuse you.”

“But I hate to ask them.  Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me a few pounds—­”

“Then go to him,” pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his protests with a shower of kisses.  “Go and get the money, Jack, dear—­you can pay it back when your remittance comes.  And we will have such a jolly day!  I am sure you don’t want to work.”

Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a woman’s tears and entreaties—­least of all when that woman was his fascinating little wife.  A moment later he was in the street, walking rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist, Jimmie Drexell.

“How Diane twists me around her finger!” he reflected ruefully.  “I hate these rows, and they have been more frequent of late.  When she is in a temper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive.  But I forget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willing slave again.  I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if her affection depends on plenty of money and pleasure.  Hang it all!  Why is a man ever fool enough to get married?”

* * * * *