She was down to the bottom of the bag the other day, so she went to her father and asked him for some money.

'My dear child,' he said--'I can't spare you a cent--I've just spent seven hundred and fifty pounds on a motor car--is a sovereign any good to you ?'" There was a bitter sense of humour in the story.

She laughed at it--loud, uncontrolled laughter that rang as empty and as hollow as an echo.
"Give me what you can," she added.

"Anything above a shilling's better than fourpence." "Is that what you're down to ?" "Um--" He took three sovereigns out of his pocket, and gave them to her.
She let them lie out flat in the palm of her hand--the three of them, all in a row.

They glittered--even in the candle-light.