Angelica said "Yes," quite absently. She was thinking how this interview with Vincent might be avoided. It was the thing above all others she most desired to avoid. She had meant to go off quickly, to _get home_, where she could think in peace, where she could try a little to remember and to comprehend what had happened. She didn’t attempt to decide whether or not she would ever see Vincent again; she knew only that she did not want to see him _now_. But she was too well-trained in poverty, and had too much common sense, to go off penniless, without even her train fare, when there was honestly earned money due to her. "Shall I wait for Eddie to come home?" she reflected. No, that wouldn’t do at all. She wouldn’t know what to say to Eddie, how to explain her leaving. She felt absolutely afraid to see him. "I’ll just have to go to Vincent," she decided. "But _I’m going_! He can’t stop me--I don’t care what he says!" It took all her courage. She went down-stairs and into the library. There he sat, writing, as Polly had said. He didn’t look up. She stood in the doorway, waiting, for a few minutes; then she said: "Mr. Geraldine!" "Yes?" he asked, not looking up from his writing. "Mrs. Geraldine told me to come to you and get my money." "I can’t be bothered now!" he said irritably. "I’m busy. Can’t you see?" "I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have it. I’m going." "Going, Angelica?" he said, looking up at last. "Yes. I want to catch the ten-forty. So if you’ll just give me my money, I’ll go right away." He resumed his writing. "Too bad!" he said. "I really haven’t got it." "Please don’t be so mean!" she cried. "For Gawd’s sake, give it to me, and let me go!" Her fatigue and her distress at his callousness were unnerving her. She felt ready to burst into tears. "Just give it to me and let me go!" she said again. "I haven’t it," said Vincent. "You haven’t got any money?" "Not a sou." "But you can get it for me?" He shook his head. "No, my dear, dear girl. You’ll have to wait." "How long--an hour?" "I can’t say." "But what do you mean?" "I mean that I haven’t any money. I said so before." "But Mrs. Geraldine said you had all her money." "Then Mrs. Geraldine will have to be informed, very kindly, that her income is mortgaged for the next two years. I had to do it. You see, she has a little annuity, which she lets me collect. Well, I was embarrassed. I had to borrow money against it. So, you see, that’s _that_! She hasn’t anything; and I--I’m penniless as a gipsy. Now you comprehend, I hope." And to her amazement he began to write again. "Say!" she cried. "This won’t do!" "Don’t bother me, my dear girl. I’m at work," he said, frowning. "On a poem." "But you can’t put me off like this!" "I’m writing!" he cried, in a sudden rage. "I don’t care about you and your money. Let me alone!" "You’ve got to stop writing, then. _I_ don’t care about you and your writing. You’ve got to pay me!" He sprang to his feet.