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Her head disappeared for a moment between her hands.

"I shall only have fifteen shillings," she sighed. "I have to pay for the hire of the typewriter, and they charge me for the paper and the carbons and everything. I worked till two o'clock this morning, Matthew. It seems hopeless to try and make enough to live on by copying alone."

Matthew sat with knitted brows, drumming on the table with his fingers.

"Where is Philip now?" he asked.

"Out somewhere," she answered, a little drearily. "He took two of his stories round to show to the editor of a new magazine some one had told him about."

Matthew's silence was ominous. She looked anxiously across the table towards him, trying to read his thoughts. His face was inscrutable.

"Matthew," she went on, "you won't mind, will you, if Philip and I are a little behind for a week or two? Philip must sell some stories soon. They really are good, Matthew. The one he wrote last week is wonderful. And I'll try and get something else to do instead of this typing—something they pay more money for."