"Yes--I--I refused. But he did not take my refusal. He asked me to think about it; that he would wait--would even wait a year. Then, I believe, he must have said something to father, besides telling him that I had refused, because father talked for a long while to me afterwards and mother, too. They showed me as plainly as they could, though, from their point of view alone, what an excellent match it would be. Father told me exactly what his financial position was--a thing he had never done before. I had always thought him to be quite rich. Then, at the end, he said he had invested in some speculation which he believed was going to set him quite right again, enable us to stay on in Kensington and make it quite possible for Ronald to go to Eton. But that if this failed, as he did not believe it would, then he hoped that I would reconsider my refusal to his friend. I say he hoped; but he did not put it in that way. He showed me that it would be my duty--that I should be spoiling Ronald’s chances and mother’s life and his, if I did not accept." She paused. She waited for John to say something; but he sat there beside her with his lips set tight and his eyes unmoving. "It was on the 18th of March, he told me that," she continued--"the day that I went to pray to St. Joseph that his speculation might not fail--the day I met you. Then--only the day before yesterday--they told me. The prayer had been no good. I always said poor St. Joseph was no good to me." "He’s lost his money?" said John hoarsely. He let her hand fall and moved away. "Yes. I--I’ve got to accept." CHAPTER XXI THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE "Then you’ll never know my people in Venice," said John presently. He had suddenly remembered that there was nothing to tell the little old white-haired lady now. To all the thousand questions which she would whisper into his ears, only evasive answers could be given her. "I told my mother about you," he went on slowly. "I told her how we met. I told her that you were praying to St. Joseph and she’s been wondering ever since--like me"--the emotion rose in his throat--"she’s been wondering what you could have had to ask." He came back to the arm-chair--the arm-chair in which he did his work--and quietly sat down. Then, as quietly, as naturally as if she had done it a thousand times before, Jill seated herself on the floor at his feet and his arm wound gently round her neck. "Did your mother know we met again?" she asked presently. "Yes--I told her about the first time in Kensington Gardens. I haven’t told her any more. I dared not." "Dared not?" She looked up quickly.