"I want you to know there's someone who's thinking of you," she said. "Someone who cares. . . . Don't feel lonely! Don't!"
"No, I won't," he assured her, a little dazed. "There's nothing wrong with me, I promise you. I'm not 'suffering.'"
"But I'm sorry for you! I am! I am!" she cried, with a great tearing sob like a hiccough. "You told me I—I was dear and sweet . . . Nobody else—for years and years . . . I want—to help you . . ."
"You do," he answered, looking with profound apprehension at all the other closed doors. "Please don't cry! You do help me—very much. I don't know what I'd do without you."
His insincerity seemed to him so patent and so brutal that he would not have felt surprised if she had struck him. All he wanted was to make her keep quiet at any cost. He was by no means so far gone in pessimism as to be indifferent to the possibility of other people observing or hearing this scene. The only thing he would not do was to let her set foot in his room; that was his last stronghold, his one refuge, and she should never, never pass that threshold. Otherwise, he was quite reckless; he would go to any lengths to tranquillize—and to get rid of her.
She had grasped his hand tighter, and on her disfigured and piteous face, still streaming tears, there was a strange light.
"Do I?" she asked. "Really? Does it comfort you to think—to think—there's someone near you?"
"It does," he said solemnly. "It's a blessing."
She dropped his hand, and stepped back, staring at him with dilated eyes. "You think that?" she said, so low he could scarcely hear her. "Then you don't know—about me."
"I don't care," he interposed hastily, in terror of a confession then and there. "I can see what you are—altogether gentle and good and kind."
"No, no!" she cried.
"Don't spoil everything!" he said, in a tone of sad entreaty. "Only say good-night to me now, and let me think—what I like."
She took a step forward and a step back, in an odd, mincing way, as if she were dancing. Then she rushed toward him and flung her arms about his neck, her wet cheek was against his, her fine, dry hair in his mouth and eyes.
