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"A most precarious occupation," he said, "and one which I should certainly not allow our boys to take up. It's a great pity, as I believe I could have got him into Foulger's office Foulger and Hilmon, you know, the jobbers." Upstairs, Jimmy was smoking and staring into his fire.
Foulger, who had been keeping an eye on the expenditure, it was not improbable that Tommy had just guessed. But she had guessed right. She was an uncanny woman. "Have you ever spoken to Musa about it?" Audrey had passionately demanded; and Tommy had answered also passionately: "Of course not. I'm a white woman all through. Haven't you learnt that yet?"
This phenomenon, to which he was not unaccustomed, did not by itself disturb him; but the face of Miss Ingate gave him strange apprehensions, which reached a climax when Miss Ingate, obviously not at all at ease, muttered: "There is a later will, Mr. Foulger. It was made last year." "I see," he breathed, scarcely above a whisper. He thought he did see.
Foulger, who wished that the National Reformation Society would indeed try. Even as he articulated the words, he was aware of Audrey coming towards him from the direction of the door; he was aware of her black frock and of her white face, with its bulging forehead and its deliciously insignificant nose. She held out her hand. "You are a dear!" she whispered.
Foulger!" Miss Ingate responded. "But you're too late." These mysterious words, and the speechlessness of Audrey, upset him again. "I was away in Somersetshire for a little fishing," he said, after he had deplored the death of Mr. Moze, the illness of Mrs. Moze, and the bereavement of Miss Moze, and had congratulated Miss Moze on the protective friendship of his old friend, Miss Ingate.
She did not want Jimmy to go to the Grimmers', but it was impossible to deny the engagement with the Foulgers, and equally impossible to say that Jimmy was going there with her Ethel Grimmer knew how many people the Foulger dining table would seat; so she gave in, and Jimmy arranged to go, showing rather more eagerness over his acceptance than May considered necessary.
She vaguely recalled a similar movement of hers long ago, and the slightly comic figure of Mr. Foulger flitted through her memory. "You shall apologise for that! You shall apologise before you leave this room!" she exploded. Her chin was aloft and her mouth remained open. "I say you shall apologise for that monstrous untruth!" He approached her, uttering not a word.
Foulger had sent three thousand pounds to Paris in the unpoetic form of small oblong pieces of paper signed with his own dull signature. Audrey desired to experience the thrill of authentic money. She waited some time in front of a cage, with her cheque-book open on the counter, until a young man glanced at her interrogatively through the bars. "How much money have I got here, please?" she asked.
The letter was signed with a name unknown to either of them, and it was dated from Coleman Street, E.C. Half an hour later the woman and the girl, still in the study and severely damaged by the culminating events of Mr. Cowl's visit, were almost prostrated by the entirely unexpected announcement of the arrival of Mr. Foulger. Mr. Foulger was the late Mr. Moze's solicitor from Chelmsford.
She ought to have said: "What is my balance, please?" But nobody had taught her the sacred formula. "What name?" said the clerk. "Moze Audrey Moze," she answered, for she had not dared to acquaint Mr. Foulger with her widowhood, and his cheques were made out to herself.
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