Yvonne shook her head. Ordinarily the most easily swayed of women, now and then she was inconvincible. She had got it into her head that the furniture had lapsed by sheer law of England into his possession, and no argument could move her. He explained that he could renew the bill. She dismissed the explanation with a little foreign gesture. “I own nothing in the world but what I stand up in,” she persisted. “Then you’re worse off than ever,” said Joyce. “I am,” she said despondently. “Is n’t it strange to want money! I never knew what it was before.” There was an odd pathos in her face that touched him. “Cheer up, little woman. Nothing is ever so bad as it looks.” Comforting words were nice, but they did not change the position. Money had to be obtained. Where was it to come from? “I suppose I must write to Everard, since your letter has miscarried.” “Letters don’t miscarry nowadays,” said Joyce. “They don’t even do so in novels. Still, you had better write. I wish you felt you need n’t.” “So do I.” “We shall have to part as soon as he cables a remittance.” “Oh, I wish we could get along as we are,” said Yvonne. “I have been so happy here with you.” “Then let us fight it out between us,” exclaimed Joyce resolutely. “You ’ll soon be able to get some singing lessons, and I ’ll find a situation as railway porter, or something, and we ’ll rub along somehow till better times.” “Oh, you don’t know how much gladder I should be!” cried Yvonne with a sparkle in her eyes. “If I only could earn something--not be a drag upon you! Oh, I would sooner lead the life of a poor, poor woman, in the humblest way, than take Everard’s money--you know that.” “We can’t go on living here,” said Joyce, gently. “Of course not. We will go to much cheaper rooms and live like working-folks. I can do lots of things, lay fires, make pastry--” “Dumplings will be as far as we can get,” said Joyce. “Well, then, they ’ll be beautiful dumplings,” said Yvonne.