"What isn't wrong? Isn't everything always wrong with me? Aren't I one of those unlucky creatures with whom nothing ever does go right?"
"Have you quarrelled with George again?"
"He's told me he couldn't give me a bed for the night, which doesn't seem to point to our being on the best of terms."
There was a momentary pause before she spoke again; and then it was with quizzically uplifted eyebrows.
"More money, Sydney?"
He was silent. His hands in his jacket pockets, his feet a little apart, he stood and looked at her, something on his handsome face which seemed to have obscured its sunshine. When he spoke it was with what, coming from him, was very unusual bitterness.
"Vi, what's the use of this? I didn't want to let you know that I was coming; I didn't mean to let you know that I had come, because--what's the use of it?"
"What's the use of my loving you, do you mean? Well, for one thing, I thought that you loved me.
"An unlucky beggar who is always in a mess, and only scrambles out of one hole to get into another--what does his love matter to anyone?"
"I cannot tell you how much it matters to me. And, Sydney, doesn't my love matter to you?"