The Osbornes by E.F. Benson — Read

Jim had been engaged to spend this week-end with a party, of which it is sufficient to say that though it would probably be amusing, it would not appear in the columns of the _Morning Post_. But on the Saturday afternoon he sent an excuse and remained in town instead. Much as he hated solitude, he had got something to do which made solitude a necessary evil. He had got to sit down and think, and continue thinking till he had made up his mind. He had to adopt a certain course of action, or by not acting at all commit himself to another course.

Claude had not come back into the room after sending that message by the telephone, and calling to him the farewell he had been unable to answer. A few seconds before only, when he himself had come into the room and found Claude examining the counterfoils of his cheque-book, he had thought that all was over, and had Claude said nothing to him, just looked at him, and pointed with a finger to the blank counterfoil close to the end of the book, Jim would have confessed. But Claude had spoken at once those incredible words, and the moment after had confirmed the reality of them by the message to his bank. The immensity of that relief had taken away Jim's power of speech; had he tried to use his voice he must have screamed. Then he heard the door of the flat shut, and the next moment he was rolling on the sofa, his face buried in its cushions, to stifle his hysterical laughter.