"Of course, I could promise to send it back next month, but--I'd
better say three months. Just as soon as I start to sell drawings."

"How do I know you'll sell any drawings?"

A new hardness in Dean's voice sent a faint chill of doubt over
Gordon. Was it possible that he wouldn't get the money?

"I supposed you had a little confidence in me."

"I did have--but when I see you like this I begin to wonder."

"Do you suppose if I wasn't at the end of my rope I'd come to you like
this? Do you think I'm enjoying it?" He broke off and bit his lip,
feeling that he had better subdue the rising anger in his voice. After
all, he was the suppliant.

"You seem to manage it pretty easily," said Dean angrily. "You put me
in the position where, if I don't lend it to you, I'm a sucker--oh,
yes, you do. And let me tell you it's no easy thing for me to get hold
of three hundred dollars. My income isn't so big but that a slice like
that won't play the deuce with it."

He left his chair and began to dress, choosing his clothes carefully.
Gordon stretched out his arms and clenched the edges of the bed,
fighting back a desire to cry out. His head was splitting and
whirring, his mouth was dry and bitter and he could feel the fever in
his blood resolving itself into innumerable regular counts like a slow
dripping from a roof.