She locked her door and read the letter. What had startled her was that abrupt beginning “Asking for money is the hardest thing in the world—at least nothing has ever been so hard before.” It went on “But I don’t know what else to do, and I must do something. I can’t write any one else, partly because no one else I know has enough money to send me and also because I haven’t told any one except your husband about myself—and I suppose he has told you. If he hasn’t he’ll tell you now that it is the truth. It’s this way. My husband has been terribly sick and what money he had was stolen while he was at the hotel before I got here. He’s still weak and of course he wants to go home. But I haven’t dared tell him we haven’t any money because he doesn’t know the maid picked his pockets while he was ill. We have to get away from the hospital now that he’s well enough to travel—we don’t know anybody in the city and there are his hospital bills to pay. The doctor told me he would wait, but I can’t ask the nurses to do that. It seems almost ridiculous for an able bodied person to be asking for money but we owe so much more than I can earn that I must borrow. There doesn’t seem to be any way to get money sometimes except by borrowing. I know I could pay it back as soon as Gregory gets well again. I suppose you’ll wonder why I don’t ask father. Well—he hasn’t as much money as we need. We need nearly six hundred dollars to take Gregory to Ireland and pay the bills here. Perhaps it would be better to get it from Gregory’s friends in Ireland. But I know from what he’s told me that they all are trying so hard to do things for the country with what little money they have that it would worry him to ask them. And it would take too long. He mustn’t be worried, the doctors say, and he must get back to his home soon. You know something about him for I remember that I saw you at his lecture. He is really very wonderful and.... It isn’t as if I had a right to ask you either, except perhaps a kind of human right.... You’ve been so kind to me, you and Mr. Flandon....”
Helen finished the letter with a rueful, very tired smile. Then she took it into Gage’s room and laid it on his bureau where he would see it, when he came in. He telephoned at noon to tell her that he was coming out; she kept out of the way so that he would read the letter before she saw him.
He brought it to her and gave it back, folded.
“I suppose I should have told you that business but it was the girl’s secret. She didn’t want it known and I stumbled on it.”
“I see,” she answered, inadequately.
“Looks like a bad situation for them, doesn’t it? I didn’t know, by the way, where she had gone. I assumed she had gone to join him but I did think Sable had driven her to do it. Evidently he sent for her.”
“And he nearly died.”
They paused in embarrassment. Helen held herself tautly.
“There’s an apology due you,” she began.
He held his hand out, deprecating it.