Mr Clay was not the sort of man who would
ever become a sponge, a nuisance to friends. He was far too proud, and
though he had often helped other people, he had never yet asked for help.
In a word, the poor little house was practically in ruins, or rather, as
he explained frankly enough (giving all details), unless he could get
eighty pounds by the next morning his furniture would be sold and he and
his wife would be turned out. Mr Clay had a great horror of a smash. He
was imprudent, even reckless, but had the sense of honour that would cause
him to suffer acutely, as Dulcie knew. Of course she offered to help;
surely since she had three hundred a year of her own she could do
something, and he had about the same....The father explained that he had
already sold his income in advance. And her own legacy had been left so
that she was barred from anticipation. Dulcie, who was practical enough,
saw that her own tiny income was absolutely all that the three would have
to live on until her father got something else, and that bankruptcy was
inevitable unless she could get him eighty pounds in a day.
'It's so little,' he said pathetically, 'and just to think that if Blue
Boy hadn't been scratched I should have been bound to--Well, well, I
know.
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