But I saw she was not thinking of apricots. She was staring absently, thoughtfully; as I came near her I perceived that she had been crying. I sat down on the bench beside her before she saw me; then, when she had done so, she simply turned round, without surprise, and rested her sad eyes upon me. Something very bad indeed had happened; she was completely changed. I immediately charged her with it. “Your cousin has been giving you bad news; you are in great distress.” For a moment she said nothing, and I supposed that she was afraid to speak, lest her tears should come back. But presently I perceived that in the short time that had elapsed since my leaving her in the morning she had shed them all, and that she was now softly stoical, intensely composed. “My poor cousin is in distress,” she said at last. “His news was bad.” Then, after a brief hesitation, “He was in terrible want of money.” “In want of yours, you mean?” “Of any that he could get--honestly. Mine was the only money.” “And he has taken yours?” She hesitated again a moment, but her glance, meanwhile, was pleading. “I gave him what I had.” I have always remembered the accent of those words as the most angelic bit of human utterance I had ever listened to; but then, almost with a sense of personal outrage, I jumped up. “Good heavens!” I said, “do you call that getting, it honestly?” I had gone too far; she blushed deeply. “We will not speak of it,” she said. “We _must_ speak of it,” I answered, sitting down again. “I am your friend; it seems to me you need one. What is the matter with your cousin?” “He is in debt.” “No doubt! But what is the special fitness of your paying his debts?” “He has told me all his story; I am very sorry for him.” “So am I! But I hope he will give you back your money.” “Certainly he will; as soon as he can.” “When will that be?” “When he has finished his great picture.” “My dear young lady, confound his great picture! Where is this desperate cousin?” She certainly hesitated now. Then,--“At his dinner,” she answered. I turned about and looked through the open door into the _salle à manger_. There, alone at the end of a long table, I perceived the object of Miss Spencer’s compassion, the bright young art-student. He was dining too attentively to notice me at first; but in the act of setting down a well-emptied wineglass he caught sight of my observant attitude. He paused in his repast, and, with his head on one side and his meagre jaws slowly moving, fixedly returned my gaze. Then the landlady came lightly brushing by with her pyramid of apricots. “And that nice little plate of fruit is for him?” I exclaimed. Miss Spencer glanced at it tenderly. “They do that so prettily!” she murmured. I felt helpless and irritated. “Come now, really,” I said; “do you approve of that long strong fellow accepting your funds?” She looked away from me; I was evidently giving her pain. The case was hopeless; the long strong fellow had “interested” her.