“You know what kind of a chap I am. No, you don't, either. You mayn't know a thing about me; and I want to tell you. I'm so different from everything you've ever known that I scare you. And no wonder. It's the way I've lived. If you knew, you'd understand what I was thinking of when I spoke just now. I've been cold, I've been hungry, I've walked the wet streets on my uppers. I know all about GOING WITHOUT. And do you expect that I am going to let a--a little thing like you--go away from here without friends and without money on the chance of getting into an almshouse that isn't vacant? Do you expect that of me? Not on your life! That was what I meant.” Miss Alicia quivered; the pale-purple ribbons on her little lace cap quivered. “I haven't,” she said, and the fine little dignity was piteous, “a SHADOW of a claim upon you.” It was necessary for her to produce a pocket-handkerchief. He took it from her, and touched her eyes as softly as though she were a baby. “Claim nothing!” he said. “I've got a claim on YOU. I'm going to stake one out right now.” He got up and gesticulated, taking in the big room and its big furniture. “Look at all this! It fell on me like a thunderbolt. It's nearly knocked the life out of me. I'm like a lost cat on Broadway. You can't go away and leave me, Miss Alicia; it's your duty to stay. You've just GOT to stay to take care of me.” He came over to her with a wheedling smile. “I never was taken care of in my life. Just be as noble to me as old Temple Barholm was to you: give me a sort of home.” If a little gentlewoman could stare, it might be said that Miss Alicia stared at him. She trembled with amazed emotion. “Do you mean--” Despite all he had said, she scarcely dared to utter the words lest, after all, she might be taking for granted more than it was credible could be true. “Can you mean that if I stayed here with you it would make Temple Barholm seem more like HOME? Is it possible you--you mean THAT?” “I mean just that very thing.” It was too much for her. Finely restrained little elderly gentlewoman as she was, she openly broke down under it. “It can't be true!” she ejaculated shakily. “It isn't possible. It is too--too beautiful and kind. Do forgive me! I c-a-n't help it.” She burst into tears. She knew it was most stupidly wrong. She knew gentlemen did not like tears. Her father had told her that men never really forgave women who cried at them. And here, when her fate hung in the balance, she was not able to behave herself with feminine decorum. Yet the new Mr. Temple Barholm took it in as matter-of-fact a manner as he seemed to take everything. He stood by her chair and soothed her in his dear New York voice.