There never had been a time when Beaton needed money more, when he had spent what he had and what he expected to have so recklessly.

He was in debt to Fulkerson personally and officially for advance payments of salary.
The thought of sending money home made him break into a scoffing laugh, which he turned into a cough in order to deceive the passers.

What sort of face should he go with to Fulkerson and tell him that he renounced his employment on 'Every Other Week;' and what should he do when he had renounced it?
Take pupils, perhaps; open a class?
A lurid conception of a class conducted on those principles of shameless flattery at which Mrs.Horn had hinted--he believed now she had meant to insult him--presented itself.

Why should not he act upon the suggestion?
He thought with loathing for the whole race of women--dabblers in art.

How easy the thing would be: as easy as to turn back now and tell that old fool's girl that he loved her, and rake in half his millions.