“I do not want to be beholden to my company for anything but itself and its interest.”
“Well, you know you are not. You are a locataire—a paying guest.”
“Yes, that is just it,” she said. “But——”
She hesitated, with a flushed cheek: and I understood. She was running short of cash. Could that be the explanation of the strange visitant? But, then, how could she have applied to him without my knowledge? And who was he? A moneylender? One did not adorn moneylender’s buttonholes with chrysanthemum buds. Or perhaps a money-borrower?
That thought was quite suddenly illuminating. I wondered that it had not occurred to me before. The man, possibly, had been appealing to her bounty—and with success. It was a solution; and yet not a solution. There still remained for elucidation the fact of his claim on her, and the means by which he had found access to her presence. However, as he had traced her somehow, and, presumably, to the effect desired, the moral appeared to lie in the direction of some understanding between them, to which the chrysanthemum bud figured, as it were, for the mystic accent. It was a riddle; but I easily gave it up.
“But,” I echoed, “you are wanting fresh supplies—is not that what you mean?”
“Yes, it is,” she answered, shortly and frankly.
“Cousin,” I said as frankly, “I am really grateful to you for your candour. It clears the air. Now let me propose, what has often been in my mind, that we keep a common purse between us.”
“A common purse!” she said, “into which I put nothing, and from which I take everything!”
“Not in the least: you will put in the account I keep against you for your share, and which you will liquidate at your convenience.”