The following day she did so. Said she, blushing furiously: "Mr. Harding, I find myself in a very embarrassing position. I wonder if you can help me?"
Harding, a young man and of one of the best blond types, said: "No doubt I can—and I'll be glad to."
"The fact is"— Her voice was trembling with nervousness. She opened the gold bag, took out the little silver pieces and the big copper piece, extended her pink palm with them upon it—"there's all I've got left of the money I brought with me."
Harding gazed at the exhibit tranquilly. He was chiefly remarkable for his perfect self-possession. Said he: "Do you wish me to cash a check for you?"
The stupidity of men! Tears of vexation gathered in her eyes. When she could speak she faltered:
"No."
He was looking at her now—a grave, kind glance.
She somehow felt encouraged and heartened. She went on: "I was hoping—that—that the gen—that my husband had said something to you and that you perhaps had not thought to say anything to me."
Their glances met, his movingly sympathetic and understanding, hers piteously forlorn—the look of a lovely girl, stranded and friendless in a far strange land. Presently he said gently:
"Yes, he told me to say something to you—if you should speak to me about this matter." His tone caused in her heart a horrible stillness of suspense. He went on: "He said—I give you his exact words: 'If my wife should ask you for money, tell her my ideas on the subject.'"