Dick patted her on the shoulder tenderly but
clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her shoulder might be.
She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most
unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between
them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart.
"Are you better now?" he said.
"Yes, but--don't you hate me?"
"I hate you? My God! I?"
"Isn't--isn't there anything I could do for you, then? I'll stay here in
England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes."
"I think not, dear. It would be kindest not to see me any more, please. I don't
want to seem rude, but--don't you think--perhaps you had almost better go now."
He was conscious that he could not bear himself as a man if the strain
continued much longer.
"I don't deserve anything else. I'll go, Dick. Oh, I'm so miserable."
"Nonsense. You've nothing to worry about; I'd tell you if you had. Wait a
moment, dear. I've got something to give you first. I meant it for you ever
since this little trouble began. It's my Melancolia; she was a beauty when I
last saw her. You can keep her for me, and if ever you're poor you can sell
her. She's worth a few hundreds at any state of the market.
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