One afternoon in May he became thoroughly disgusted with the life he had chosen for himself. The bright sunshine made the shabby carpet and tawdry furniture and soiled mirrors intolerably vulgar. They had just finished a badly cooked, crossly served, untidy dinner, and Roland had no cigar to mend it. Denasia had not eaten at all; she lay on 184 the bright blue sofa with shut eyes, and her faded beauty and faded dress were offensive to the fastidious young man.
She was thinking of her father’s cottage, of the love at its hearth, and of the fresh salt winds blowing all around it. Roland half-divined her thoughts, and his own wandered to Burrell Court and his long-neglected sister.
Suddenly he resolved to go and see her. Elizabeth had always plenty of money, then why should he be without it? And the desire having entered his heart, he was as imperative as a spoiled child for its gratification. Denasia’s physical condition did not appeal to him in any degree; he could not help her weakness and suffering, and certainly it was very inconvenient for him. He felt at that hour as if Denasia had broken her part of their mutual compact, which had not included illness or loss of prestige and beauty. He turned sharply to her and said:
“Denasia, I am going to St. Penfer. I shall have to sell a ring or something valuable in order to get the fare, but I see no other way. Elizabeth never disappointed my expectations; she will give me money, I am sure.”
“Don’t leave me, Roland. I will get well, I will indeed, dear. I am better this afternoon. In a few days––in a week, Roland, I can find some place to sing. Please have a little patience. Oh, do, my dear!”
“Little patience! What are you saying, Denasia? You are very ungrateful! Have I not had patience 185 for a whole month? Have I not spent even my cigar-money for you? Patience, indeed!”
“Is there nowhere but St. Penfer? No person but Elizabeth?”
“I can go to St. Merryn’s, if you like. Give me an order for the money in your name at St. Merryn’s Bank.”
She turned sullen in a moment. “I have told you a thousand times, Roland, I would rather die of hunger than rob my father.”
“Very well, then, why do you complain if I go to my own people? I hope when I return you will be better.”