“I shall never get any money any more as long as I live,” said Yvonne. “I can only go from this hospital into the workhouse. And I won’t go there. I will pray to die rather.” “But,” began Joyce, in an embarrassed way, “I don’t understand. Forgive me for touching upon it--but has not Everard--?” “No, oh, no! I refused. I could n’t take his money, if I was not his wife.” “That’s absurd,” said Joyce. But his opinion did not alter the facts. He remained for a moment in thought. “Don’t lose heart,” he said at length. “Things are never as bad as they seem. I ’ve had awfully bad times and yet I have pulled through, somehow. You can live quietly for a little on what you have, and then--” “But I have n’t a penny, Stephen,” she cried piteously. “Not a penny in the world. I earned scarcely anything the last year. If it hadn’t been for Dina, I don’t know what I should have done. I don’t own anything but a few sticks of furniture and some clothes--” “Where are they?” “The porter’s wife at the mansions is keeping them for me, I believe. They may be sold. I was too ill to trouble.” “I ’ll see about them for you,” said Joyce. His heart was moved with great pity for the sweet, helpless little soul. It seemed hard to realise that, when they had met four years ago, he had looked upon her as a Lady Bountiful, who had only to stretch out her kind arm to save him from starvation. Oh, the whirligig of time! And yet the memory of her help was very precious to him. “You must let me act for you, Yvonne, will you?” “You have your own troubles, poor fellow,” said Yvonne. “Yours will drive mine away, so they will be a blessing in disguise. I wonder if you could trust me?” “I have always done so--and I do. Are n’t you the only friend I have?” “That is what beats me entirely,” he said. “What are all your friends doing?” “They have all disappeared gradually,” said Yvonne. “My poor marriage cut me adrift from my old circle. And at Fulminster--I did n’t make many real friends.” “There was a girl you wrote to me about once or twice.” “Sophia Wilmington? She’s married and gone out to India. I should have written to her if she had been in England, for she was fond of me.” “I should have thought that the whole world was fond of you, Yvonne.” “I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “It seems that I have always been a kind of waif. I never had any solid kinds of friends, families and so forth--except your dear mother. I once knew a lot of professionals--but I saw men mostly--I could never tell why--and they don’t bother about you much when they’ve lost sight of you, do they? I thought Vandeleur might have wondered what had become of me.” “Dear, dear!” said Joyce, reflectively. “I remember Vandeleur from the long ago.”