“I am,” she said despondently. “Is n’t it strange to want money! I never knew what it was before.”
There was an odd pathos in her face that touched him.
“Cheer up, little woman. Nothing is ever so bad as it looks.”
Comforting words were nice, but they did not change the position. Money had to be obtained. Where was it to come from?
“I suppose I must write to Everard, since your letter has miscarried.”
“Letters don’t miscarry nowadays,” said Joyce. “They don’t even do so in novels. Still, you had better write. I wish you felt you need n’t.”
“So do I.”
“We shall have to part as soon as he cables a remittance.”
“Oh, I wish we could get along as we are,” said Yvonne. “I have been so happy here with you.”
“Then let us fight it out between us,” exclaimed Joyce resolutely. “You ’ll soon be able to get some singing lessons, and I ’ll find a situation as railway porter, or something, and we ’ll rub along somehow till better times.”