ly. If I had had a child," he went on, "even if
there were one single soul of whom I was fond, to whom I might look for
sympathy; even if you, my dear friend--you see, I am bold, and I venture
to call you my dear friend--could be a little kinder sometimes, it would
make all the difference in the world."

She turned her head and looked at him. His teeth came together hastily.
It seemed to him that already she was on her guard.

"You have something more to say, haven't you?" she asked.

He hesitated. Her tone was non-committal. It was a moment when he might
have risked everything, but he feared to make a mistake.

"This is what I mean," he declared, with the appearance of great
frankness. "I am going to speak to you upon the absurd question of
money. I have an income of which, even if I were boundlessly
extravagant, I could not hope to spend half. A speculation, the week
before I left England, brought me a profit of a million marks. But for
the banking interests of my country and the feeling that I am the
trustee for thousands of other people, it would weary me to look for
investments. And you--you came in to-night, looking worn out just
because you had lost a handful or so of those wretched plaques. There,
you see it is coming now. I should like permission to do more than call
myself your friend. I should like permission to be also your banker."

She looked at him quietly and searchingly. His heart began to beat
faster. At least she was in doubt. He had not wholly lost. His chance,
even, was good.

"My friend," she said, "I believe that you are honest. I do indeed
recognise your point of view. The thing is an absurdity, but, you know,
all conventions, even the most foolish, have some human and natural
right beneath them. I think that the convention which forbids a woman
accepting money from a man, however close a friend, is like that.
Frankly, my first impulse, a few minutes ago, was to ask you to lend me
a thousand pounds. Now I know that I cannot do it."

"Do you really mean that?" he asked, in a tone of deep disappointment.
"If you do, I am hurt. It proves that the friendship which to me is so
dear, is to you a very slight thing."

"You mustn't think that," she pleaded. "And please, Mr. Draconmeyer,
don't think that I don't appreciate all your kindness. Short of
accepting your money, I would do anything to prove it."

"There need be no question of a gift," he reminded her, in a low tone.
"If I were a perfect