After that, although they talked of other things in their brief time together, he never once escaped from the terrifying realization that she was starving,—actually starving, and he could do nothing. Until now he had never entertained a suspicion of the tremendous importance of having money. Even while they were there, with only those few precious moments to themselves after weeks of loneliness, he was desperately catching at straws of possibilities for obtaining some—in sufficient amount, that is, to relieve her distressing situation at home. By a lucky chance he had brought with him what little he had in the house, so he could at least keep her from starvation for to-day. It would hardly do more than that. But how to get more? How? How? How? Then suddenly he thought of Mr. Trescott. He remembered one thing the lawyer had recommended was the sale of the place. There was a mortgage, but they could get a figure, he had said, that would cover it and leave something over. Haworth couldn’t bring himself to do it then. There was his shop and machinery and drafting room—all the things he needed. But what did that amount to now? Edith had come into his life; she _was_ his life. There was nothing else. He didn’t understand it, but it was so—there was nothing else. He would go and see Mr. Trescott the next day and ask him to sell the place. That was settled. And for the rest of the time they were together he had no thought but of Edith, and of her presence close beside him. Most of it was spent in a restaurant, for as soon as it would do after discovering the state of things he claimed to be exceedingly hungry, and they went to one together. She was entirely frank and said she was hungry too, and he had the joy of seeing her present famishment relieved. While they were there he told her, as a preparation for what would come from selling the mansion (for she might not like that), that he expected to dispose of one of his inventions and she was to go halves with him on whatever he got. She said, “Oh!” and her eyes were alight for a moment. But then she looked at him doubtfully. “What is it, darling?” he asked. “Oh—why, I’m thinking—I’m afraid you’ll not be taking care of _yourself_—your machinery and patents and—and all that you need to do about them.” “There’ll be plenty for those things too.” “Will there?” And so at last she was satisfied, and they began to consider the way of getting her “share” to her—whether a little at a time or a lump sum. They finally decided on small and more frequent remittances, for if Findlay once got the idea that she had a considerable amount of money in the house he would resort to any violence to get it. And mailing seemed the best way of sending, for she could go to the Post Office without danger of discovery, if she was careful about it.