Lola declared that I was talking rubbish.

“Not quite such rubbish as you may think, my dear.  Shall you mind?”

“It would break my heart.  But why do you talk so?  You can’t be—­as poor—­as that?”

Her face manifested such tragic concern that I laughed.  Besides, the idea of personal poverty amused me.  When I gave up my political work I should only have what I had saved from my wreck—­some two hundred a year—­to support me until I should find some other means of livelihood.  It was enough to keep me from starvation, and the little economies I had begun to practise afforded me enjoyment.  On the other hand, how folks regulated their balance-sheets so as to live on two hundred a year I had but a dim notion.  In the course of our walk from Barbara’s Building to the Judds the night before I had asked Campion.  He had laughed somewhat grimly.

“I don’t know.  I don’t run an asylum for spendthrift plutocrats; but if you want to see how people live and bring up large families on fifteen shillings a week, I can show you heaps of examples.”

This I felt would, in itself, be knowledge of the deepest interest; but it would in no way aid me to solve my own economic difficulty.  I was always being brought up suddenly against the problem in some form or another, and, as I say, it caused me considerable amusement.

“I shall go on happily enough,” said I, reassuringly.  “In the meantime let us go and see the lions and tigers.”

We started.  The electric brougham glided along comfortably through the sunlit streets.  A feeling of physical and spiritual content stole over me.  Our hands met and lingered a long time in a sympathetic clasp.  Whatever fortune held in store for me here at least I had an inalienable possession.  For some time we said nothing, and when our eyes met she smiled.  I think she had never felt my heart so near to hers.  At last we broke the silence and talked of ordinary things.  I told her of my vigil overnight and my undertaking to look after the Judds.  She listened with great interest.  When I had finished my tale, she said almost passionately: 

“Oh, I wish I could do something like that!”

“You?”

“Why not?  I came from those people.  My grandfather swept the cages in Jamrach’s down by the docks.  He died of drink.  He used to live in one horrible, squalid room near by.  I remember my father taking me to see him when I was a little girl—­we ourselves weren’t very much better off at that time.  I’ve been through it,” she shivered.  “I know what that awful poverty is.  Sometimes it seems immoral of me to live luxuriously as I do now without doing a hand’s turn to help.”

“Chacun a son metier, my dear,” said I.  “There’s no need to reproach yourself.”

“But I think it might be my metier,” she replied earnestly, “if only I could learn it.”

“Why haven’t you tried, then?”

“I’ve been lazy and the opportunity hasn’t come my way.”