Nancy interrupted her.

‘Hush!  Was that baby?’

‘Only the wind, I think.’

Not content, Nancy went to the foot of the stairs.  Whilst she stood there listening, Mary came out, and said in a low voice: 

‘There’s a tap at the window.’

‘No!—­You must have been mistaken.’

‘I’m sure it was a tap on the glass.’

She withdrew to the back sitting-room, and Nancy, with quick step, went to open the house-door.  A great gust of wind forced it against her as soon as she turned the handle; standing firm, she peeped into darkness.

‘Any one there?’

‘No enemy but winter and rough weather,’ chanted a familiar voice.

’Why, what brings you here, frightening lone women at this time of night?  Shut and lock the door for me.  The house will be blown out of the windows.’

Nancy retreated to her parlour, and stood there in an attitude of joyous expectation.  Without hurry Tarrant hung up his coat and hat in the passage, then came forward, wiping rain from his moustache.  Their eyes met in a smile, frank and confident.

‘Why have you come, Lionel?’

‘No reason in particular.  The fancy took me.  Am I unwelcome?’

For answer, his wife’s arms were thrown about him.  A lovers’ meeting, with more of tenderness, and scarcely less of warmth, than when Nancy knocked at the door in Staple Inn.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Only for what you have given me.’

‘Some tea, then, after that wretched journey.’

‘No.  How’s the boy?’

He drew her upon his knee, and listened laughingly whilst the newest marvels of babyhood were laughingly related.

‘Anything from Horace?’

‘Not a word.  He must be in London now; I shall write tomorrow.’

Tarrant nodded carelessly.  He had the smallest interest in his wife’s brother, but could not help satisfaction in the thought that Horace was to be reputably, and even brilliantly, married.  From all he knew of Horace, the probability had seemed that his marriage would be some culmination of folly.

‘I think you have something to tell me,’ Nancy said presently, when her hand had been fondled for a minute or two.

’Nothing much, but good as far as it goes.  Bunbury has asked me to write him an article every week for the first six months of ’90.  Column and a half, at two guineas a column.’

‘Three guineas a week.’

‘O rare head!’

’So there’s no anxiety for the first half of next year, at all events,’ said Nancy, with a sigh of relief.

’I think I can count on a margin of fifty pounds or so by midsummer —­towards the debt, of course.’

Nancy bit her lip in vexation, but neither made nor wished to make any protest.  Only a week or two ago, since entering upon his patrimony, Horace Lord had advanced the sum necessary to repay what Nancy owed to the Barmbys.  However rich Horace was going to be, this debt to him must be cancelled.  On that, as on most other points, Tarrant and his wife held a firm agreement of opinion.  Yet they wanted money; the past year had been a time of struggle to make ends meet.  Neither was naturally disposed to asceticism, and if they did not grumble it was only because grumbling would have been undignified.