"You would not rather be alone if you could be helped," said Carrie. "I know all about it. You have got a brother in Ireland who has got into a scrape. Bless you, I know all about the scrapes of young men. Now, poor Sam Raynes, he----. Yes, what is it, Miss Malone?" "I wish you would leave me," said Kitty in a haughty tone. "I am not friends with Elma just now, and I would rather not see any of her family." "Yes, but I think you'll see me when I tell you my errand," said Carrie, in no way abashed by Kitty's manner. She crossed the room as she spoke, and deliberately placing herself in the one easy-chair the room possessed, crossed her legs, and leaning back, looked fixedly at Kitty. "Very well, if you won't go, then I must," said Kitty. "I don't understand English people. They talk a great deal about manners; but no Irishwoman, none that I ever heard of, would dream----" "Oh, bosh! Stop all that," said Carrie in her rudest voice. "I have come here to help you, and I see that I must explain myself. You want some money, don't you?" "Yes; but I cannot get it," answered Kitty. "Oh, my dear, do just stay still a moment. What a sweet little shoe! Did you get it at any shop here?" "No," answered Kitty, interested for the moment in spite of herself. "Aunt Honora bought these in Grafton Street, Dublin. They have the nicest shoes in that special shop of any place I know. Do you like it?" "Oh, it is quite sweet; it is the way the heel is arranged, and that little buckle." "Well, never mind about my shoes now," said Kitty, pushing the attractive little foot well in under her skirt. "What is it you have come to say? Please say it, and then--go." "I will, if you wish me to. Look here, I know all about your story. You are in dreadful trouble, and so is Elma; but I do declare I think poor Elma's trouble much worse than yours." "You know nothing about it," cried Kitty, with passion. "Elma in worse trouble! Oh, if you only could guess!" "I guess well enough," said Carrie, "and so does Elma. You want money, which, evidently, as a rule, is as plentiful to you as blackberries on the hedges in September; and you think, because you cannot lay your hand on that money immediately, the whole world is going to change. But let me tell you that Elma and I want money far, far more badly than you have any idea of. Until you gave Elma that eight pounds, we neither of us ever in our lives had so much in our possession." "I didn't give it--you make a mistake--I lent it." "Oh, it is all the same. Elma had it, and, for practical purposes, it was just as valuable as if it were really her own." "Well, I want her to give it back to me now. I surely have a right to ask for my own money back again?"