“Wait!” she interposed, worry creeping into her sweet voice.  “I—­I can’t let you go like this.  Do you really mean you have to sleep out of doors and that you have no money?  I don’t want to be impertinent, but—­”

“‘Nobody need starve in Florida,’” he quoted, gravely.  “’Nobody who is willing to work.  The weather lets you sleep outdoors.’ (In which, the weather chimes harmoniously with my pocketbook.) And, as I am extremely ‘willing to work,’ it follows that I can’t possibly starve.  But I thank you for feeling concerned about me.  It’s a long day since a woman has bothered her head whether I live or die.  Good night, again, Miss—­”

A second time, she ignored his hint that she tell him her name.  Too much worried over his light words and the real need they seemed to cover, to heed the subtler intent, she said, a little tremulously: 

“I—­I don’t understand you, at all.  Not that it is any business of mine, of course.  But I hate to think that any one is in need of food or shelter.  Your voice and your face and the way you talk—­they don’t fit in with the rest of you.  Such men as yourself don’t drift, penniless, through Lower Florida, looking for day-laborer jobs.  I can’t understand—­”

“Every one who speaks decent English and yet is down-and-out,” he said, quietly, “isn’t necessarily a tramp or a fugitive from justice.  And he doesn’t need to be a man of mystery, either.  Suppose, let’s say, a clerk in New York has been too ill, for a long time, to work.  Suppose illness has eaten all his savings, and that he doesn’t care to borrow, when he knows he may never be able to pay.  Suppose his doctor tells him he must go South, to get braced up, and to avoid a New York February and March.  Suppose the patient has only about money enough to get here, and relies on finding something to do to keep him in food and lodging.  Well—­there’s nothing mysterious or especially discreditable in that, is there? ...  The dew is beginning to fall.  And I’m keeping you out here in the damp.  Good night, Miss—­Miss—­”

“Standish,” she supplied, but speaking absently, her mind still perturbed at his plight.  “My name is Standish.  Claire Standish.”

“Mine is Gavin Brice,” he said.  “Good night.  Keep hold of Bobby Burns’s collar, till I’m well on my way.  He may try to follow me.  Good-by, old chap,” he added, bending down and taking the collie’s silken head affectionately between his hands.  “You’re a good dog, and a good pal.  But put the soft pedal on the temperamental stuff, when you’re near Simon Cameron.  That’s the best recipe for avoiding a scratched nose.  By the way, Miss Standish, don’t encourage him to roam around in the palmetto scrub, on your outings with him.  The rattlesnakes have gotten many a good dog, in Florida.  He—­”

“Mr. Brice!” she broke in.  “If I offend you, I can’t help it.  Won’t you please let me—­let me lend you enough money to keep you going, till you get a good job?  Please do!  Of course, you can pay me, as soon as—­”