"Yes. Because now that we've met again I shall be able to see all you do--and how you fight. It would have been awful to come back to you, and find that all the work had been done, and that I had not seen how it was done. It's beautiful to think that now, when your name is in print, and people are beginning to talk about you, all this goes on--this fight for money. I could not have liked you, Jimmy, unless you had been poor--that is, poor to begin with, of course. I shall be able to watch it all grow up; see you making money; I shall have been in the secret of it all." "It's a poor sort of secret," he said ruefully. "No, it isn't," she retorted. "Don't you understand, Jimmy dear, that being poor you're my friend in a special sense, because I'm poor too. It seems to me that the nicest people are poor, and I shan't feel so lonely in London now, as I should have done if I'd had to look up to you, as to someone richer than myself. But what are you going to do about--about her?" She jerked her head towards the door. "Clear out, I suppose, if I can't pay up," he said. "Everything's gone wrong lately, Moira, and everything seemed to go so right at first. I was to have had a cheque this morning--and it hasn't come." "Had any breakfast, Jimmy?" She spoke eagerly--wistfully--with a little catch in her voice. "Not--not exactly," he replied. "Not that I was hungry, you'll understand; I never eat much before lunch----" "Jimmy!" He looked round at her sharply, and read the reproach in her eyes. "You're not treating me fairly," she said. "Well--what would you have me say? That I was beastly hungry--not having had a very liberal dinner last night--and that I dared not ask her for any breakfast, because I owed her too much already? Would you like me to say that?" "To me--yes," she whispered. "Would you be hurt with me if I offered--offered to get you some breakfast?" "Moira!" He drew back, and looked at her with a sudden frown of resentment. "Oh, it's only a little matter," she pleaded, "and you shall pay me back some day--when you're rich. It's only a few coppers, Jimmy--and I should love to do it--please!" She saw that he was relenting; she laughed gaily, and ran out of the room. Almost before he had done smiling foolishly at the door through which she had vanished, she came back again, bringing parcels with her. And then, all aglow with excitement, was down on her knees before the fire, stirring it to activity, and laughing delightedly like a child. "What am I to cook it in," she asked, suddenly. "I suppose you haven't a frying-pan?" "Oh, yes--I have," he whispered, entering suddenly and completely into the spirit of the thing. "I keep a frying-pan and a kettle--because sometimes at night, after she's gone to bed, and one is hungry--well, even sausages are very comforting for supper."