“What has the furniture to do with it?”
“Why it is yours, is n’t it?”
“How, mine?”
“The bill of sale,” replied Yvonne seriously.
“Oh, you dear little goose,” cried Joyce, “you don’t suppose I am going to sell you up!”
“Why not—if you need the money? The furniture is all your own.”
“How can it be when I don’t claim it?”
Yvonne shook her head. Ordinarily the most easily swayed of women, now and then she was inconvincible. She had got it into her head that the furniture had lapsed by sheer law of England into his possession, and no argument could move her. He explained that he could renew the bill. She dismissed the explanation with a little foreign gesture.
“I own nothing in the world but what I stand up in,” she persisted.
“Then you’re worse off than ever,” said Joyce.