“Then won’t you let me give you some?”
I still had enough of the man about me to straighten myself up and say:
“Thanks, no. It’s very kind of you; but—but the reasons which make it
impossible for me to—to steal it make it equally impossible for me to
take it as a gift.”
“But why—why was it impossible for you to steal it, when you had come
here to do it?”
“I suppose it was seeing the owner of it face to face. I’d sunk low
enough to steal from some one I couldn’t visualize—but what’s the use?
It’s mere hair-splitting. Just let me say that this is my first attempt,
and it hasn’t succeeded. I may do better next time if I can get up the
nerve.”
“Oh, but there won’t be a next time.”
“That we shall have to see.”
“Suppose”—the mixture of embarrassment and pity made it hard for her to
speak—“suppose I said I was sorry for you.”
“You don’t have to say it. I see it. It’s something I shall never forget
as long as I live.”
“Well, since I’m sorry for you, won’t you let me—?”
“No,” I interrupted, firmly. “I’m grateful for your pity; I’ll accept
that; but I won’t take anything else.” I began moving toward the door.
“Since you’re good enough to let me go, I had better be off; but I can’t
do it without thanking you.”
For the first time she smiled a little. Even in that dim light I could
see it was what in normal conditions would be commonly called a generous
smile, full, frank, and kindly. Just now it was little more than a
quivering of the long scarlet lips. She glanced toward the little heap of
things on the desk.
“If it comes to that, I have to thank you.”