“Fred Birch!” Diana’s voice was faltering and amazed.

Fanny twisted her hat in her hands.

“He’s all right,” she said, angrily, “if his business hadn’t been ruined by a lot of nasty crawling tale-tellers.  If people’d only mind their own business!  However, there it is—­he’s ruined—­he hasn’t got a penny piece—­and, of course, he can’t marry me, if—­well, if somebody don’t help us out.”

Diana’s face changed.

“Do you mean that I should help you out?”

“Well, there’s no one else!” said Fanny, still, as it seemed, defying something or some one.

“I gave you—­a thousand pounds.”

“You gave it mother I I got precious little of it.  I’ve had to borrow, lately, from people in the boarding-house.  And I can’t get any more—­there!  I’m just broke—­stony.”

She was still looking straight before her, but her lip trembled.

Diana bent forward impetuously.

“Fanny!” she said, laying her hand on her cousin’s, “do go home!”

Fanny’s lip continued to tremble.

“I tell you I’m engaged,” she repeated, in a muffled voice.

“Don’t marry him!” cried Diana, imploringly.  “He’s not—­he’s not a good man.”

“What do you know about it?  He’s well enough, though I dare say he’s not your sort.  He’d be all right if somebody would just lend a hand—­help him with the debts, and put him on his feet again.  He suits me, anyway.  I’m not so thin-skinned.”

Diana stiffened.  Fanny’s manner—­as of old—­was almost incredible, considered as the manner of one in difficulties asking for help.  The sneering insolence of it inevitably provoked the person addressed.

“Have you told Aunt Bertha?” she said, coldly—­“asked her consent?”

“Mother?  Oh, I’ve told her I’m engaged.  She knows very well that I manage my own business.”

Diana withdrew her chair a little.

“When are you going to be married?  Are you still with those friends?”

Fanny laughed.

“Oh, Lord, no!  I fell out with them long ago.  They were a wretched lot!  But I found a girl I knew, and we set up together.  I’ve been in a blouse-shop earning thirty shillings a week—­there!  And if I hadn’t, I’d have starved!”

Fanny raised her head.  Their eyes met:  Fanny’s full of mingled bravado and misery; Diana’s suddenly stricken with deep and remorseful distress.

“Fanny, I told you to write to me if there was anything wrong!  Why didn’t you?”

“You hated me!” said Fanny, sullenly.

“I didn’t!” cried Diana, the tears rising to her eyes.  “But—­you hurt me so!” Then again she bent forward, laying her hand on her cousin’s, speaking fast and low.  “Fanny, I’m very sorry!—­if I’d known you were in trouble I’d have come or written—­I thought you were with friends, and I knew the money had been paid.  But, Fanny, I implore you!—­give up Mr. Birch!  Nobody speaks well of him!  You’ll be miserable!—­you must be!”