Of course there was one question that had been at the back of my mind
all this time. I hated it.
“Have you any money?”
“Yes, I have twenty pounds—here,” and she put her hand on her breast. I
bowed. It was great deal more than I had expected.
“And what are your plans?”
Yes, I know. My question was the most clumsy, the most idiotic one I
could have put. She had been so tame, so confiding, letting me, at any
rate spiritually speaking, hold her tiny quivering body in one hand and
stroke her furry head—and now, I’d thrown her away. Oh, I could have
kicked myself.
She stood up. “I have no plans. But—it’s very late. You must go now,
please.”
How could I get her back? I wanted her back. I swear I was not acting
then.
“Do feel that I am your friend,” I cried. “You will let me come
to-morrow, early? You will let me look after you a little—take care of
you a little? You’ll use me just as you think fit?”
I succeeded. She came out of her hole . . . timid . . . but she came
out.
“Yes, you’re very kind. Yes. Do come to-morrow. I shall be glad. It
makes things rather difficult because—” and again I clasped her boyish
hand—“_je ne parle pas français._”
Not until I was half-way down the boulevard did it come over me—the
full force of it.
Why, they were suffering . . . those two . . . really suffering. I have
seen two people suffer as I don’t suppose I ever shall again. . . .
Of course you know what to expect. You anticipate, fully, what I am
going to write. It wouldn’t be me, otherwise.