He had bowed his head, then crossed and put the telegram into her outstretched hand.

They had stood there quite silently for a while. Then Jeremy had said:

"I wish I could help you, my dear."

And she had answered, her voice steady, her tears unshed, conscious only of the terrible emptiness and aching: "It's just as bad for you."

He had patted her shoulder.

"Yes," he said. "Yes..." Then he had moved towards the door, walking a little awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old man... saying as he did so,

"There's nothing to be said - nothing to be said..."

She had been grateful to him, passionately grateful, for understanding so well, and had been torn with pity for him, seeing him suddenly turn into an old man. With the loss of her boy, something had hardened in her - some ordinary common kindness had dried up. She was more efficient, more energetic than ever - people became sometimes a little afraid of her ruthless common sense...

Jeremy Cloade's finger moved along his upper lip again - irresolutely, searching.

And crisply, across the room, Frances spoke.

"Is anything the matter, Jeremy?"

He started. His coffee cup almost slipped from his hand. He recovered himself, put it firmly down on the tray. Then he looked across at her.

"What do you mean, Frances?"

"I'm asking you if anything is the matter?"

"What should be the matter?"

"It would be foolish to guess. I would rather you told me."

She spoke without emotion in a businesslike way.

He said unconvincingly:

"There is nothing the matter -"

She did not answer. She merely waited inquiringly. His denial, it seemed, she put aside as negligible. He looked at her uncertainly.

And just for a moment the imperturbable mask of his grey face slipped, and she caught a glimpse of such turbulent agony that she almost exclaimed aloud. It was only for a moment but she didn't doubt what she had seen.

She said quietly and unemotionally:

"I think you had better tell me -"

He sighed - a deep unhappy sigh.

"You will have to know, of course," he said, "sooner or later."

And he added what was to her a very astonishing phrase.

"I'm afraid you've made a bad bargain, Frances."

She went right past an implication she did not understand to attack hard facts.

"What is it," she said, "money?"

She did not know why she put money first. There had been no special signs of financial stringency other than were natural to the times. They were short-staffed at the office with more business than they could cope with, but that was the same everywhere and in the last month they had got back some of their people released from the Army. It might just as easily have been illness that he was concealing - his colour had been bad lately, and he had been overworked and overtired. But nevertheless Frances's instinct went towards money, and it seemed she was right.