"They might be looking for you, and you must go; the porter will hand you all you want to-morrow."
But I did not go. Pressing myself still harder against the wall, I looked up at him, and my lips trembled as I said:
"Are you cross with me for having asked you?"
"You are a child," he said with great decision; "let me tell you once and for all that I am your friend, to whom you not only may, but must, confide all your troubles"—his face wore the entreating look again—"but go now, please."
I obeyed as if I was in a dream.
The porter handed me an envelope the next morning, and when I tore it open I saw that it contained neatly folded bank-notes.
From that day onward I felt boundlessly grateful towards my friend, loved him, if such was possible, more than I had done before, and could hardly control my affection whenever we met. He, however, remained the same.
To him my poems were the sole and constant source of conversation, and perfect though I thought them, he was far from being satisfied.
Now and again he would acknowledge the beauty of a thought or verse, and the slightest praise from him was sweet reward to me.