“Sophia Wilmington? She’s married and gone out to India. I should have written to her if she had been in England, for she was fond of me.”
“I should have thought that the whole world was fond of you, Yvonne.”
“I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “It seems that I have always been a kind of waif. I never had any solid kinds of friends, families and so forth—except your dear mother. I once knew a lot of professionals—but I saw men mostly—I could never tell why—and they don’t bother about you much when they’ve lost sight of you, do they? I thought Vandeleur might have wondered what had become of me.”
“Dear, dear!” said Joyce, reflectively. “I remember Vandeleur from the long ago.”
“Yes, he’s an old friend. But, you see, it was through Dina. He behaved badly to her and married Elsie Carnegie—and so they were cuts. I only saw him once all last year. I heard she was awfully jealous. Is n’t it silly of a woman? I think, if he knew I was here he’d come. But what would be the use?”
“Not much, except to say a friendly word to you. But still—while you were living with Miss Vicary, you must have made some acquaintances. It seems so extraordinary.”
“We lived so very much alone,” explained Yvonne. “Poor Dina didn’t know many people—no one liked her. With one exception—and he died long ago—I think I am the only one in the world who ever loved Dina. No—I am just a waif—that’s what I am.”
In her simple way she had accounted to him accurately for her life since her rupture with Everard. At first she had been too sore at heart to go much into the world. Then Geraldine, whose influence with her was paramount, continually discouraged her from renewing old acquaintanceships. Her friends had literally melted away. Had she so chosen, she might have interested in her misfortunes a score of professional well-wishers. But Yvonne was proud in many unexpected ways, and would have died rather than have the shame of sending the hat round for relief. As for communicating with Fulminster, it was not to be thought of.
“I don’t care,” she added, after a pause; “I have found you again.”
“Then dry your poor eyes,” he said comfortingly; “and don’t think any more of the worries. Don’t you remember how happy you made me once, when I was in desperate straits—when all the world cast me off but you? You are still the only being who knows me and cares whether I live or die. You are neither going to starve, Yvonne, nor die in a workhouse. As long as I have a penny you shall have half of it. Don’t think of anything more than the immediate future, little woman. We will manage that all right. Be comforted.”