'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed Carter, joining in what he considered the jest.

'Shall you pay a pound a week?'

'Twenty-five shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be trusted to take money from the paying patients.'

'Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?'

Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh.

'The fact is,' Reardon replied, 'I want variety of occupation. I can't stick at writing for more than a month or two at a time. It's because I have tried to do so that--well, practically, I have broken down. If you will give me this clerkship, it will relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writing novels; I shall be better for it in every way. You know that I'm equal to the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall be more useful than most clerks you could get.'

It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute more of pause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His face burned, his tongue was parched.

'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought--but of course, if you really want it. I can hardly believe yet that you're serious, Reardon.'