"I'm a plain fellow, Miss Rich, and I know what's what," he said, "Hendon and I've had lots of chats together about money matters, and you want money now." "Mr Poynter!" "Now, now, now! sit down, and don't get in a wax, my dear, with a man who has come as a friend. I'm well enough off now, but I know the time when a half-crown seemed riches, and if a friend had come to me, I'd ha' said `Bless yer!'" "If you have come as a friend of my brother, Mr Poynter, I am grateful." "Now, don't put me on one side like that, Miss Rich--don't. I have come as a friend--the best of friends. I know what things are, and that you're pushed for money." "Mr Poynter!" indignantly. "Yes, I know what you are going to say. 'Tain't put delicate. Can't help that. I'm a City man of business; but if it ain't put delicately it's put honest. We don't put things delicately in the City." "I have no doubt of your intentions, Mr Poynter, and I am grateful." "Thank you, and that's right. Now, don't kick at what I'm going to say, and let it hurt your pride, because it is only between you and your best friend--the man as loves you. There, I came to say that, and I'm glad it's out." "Mr Poynter," said Rich hastily, "I am worn out. I am ill. I have that terrible trouble in the house. It is not the time to speak to me like this." "That's where you're wrong, my dear; for when should your best friend come if it isn't when you're sick, and so pushed for money that you don't know where to turn?" "Oh, the shame of it!" moaned Rich to herself, as her eyes flashed with mortification, while Poynter went on polishing his hat. "You see I know all about it, and I want to show you that I'm no fine-weather friend." "Mr Poynter I have told you that I am ill; will you please to bring this visit to an end? I--I cannot bear it." "Yes, you can," he said, in what was meant to be a soothing tone; "let's have it over at once, and have done with it. I won't hurry you. I only want to feel that it will be some day before long; and till then here's my hand, and it don't come to you empty. Say what's troubling you, and what you want to pay, and there's my cheque for it. I don't care how much it is." "Mr Poynter," cried Rich, "you force me to speak out. I cannot take your help, and what you wish is impossible." "Oh, no, it isn't!" he said, smiling, and leaving his handkerchief hanging on his hat as he tried to take her hand, which she withdrew; "I saw the doctor the other day, before this upset. We had a long chat over it, and he was willing." "What! my father willing?" "To give his consent? Yes." "It is impossible!" cried Rich. "Oh, no, it isn't, and what's more, Hendon and I have often chatted this over together, and he's willing, too. Now, I say, what is the use of making a fuss over it? There, we understand one another, and I want to help you at once."