His accent was sincerity itself. I saw the young girl hurrying secretly out of the Five Towns Hotel. Could it be true that she had carried away with her, unknowing, the heart of Diaz? Could it be true that her panic flight had ruined a career? The faint possibility that it was true made me sick with vain grief.
‘And now I am old and forgotten and disgraced,’ he said.
‘How old are you, Diaz?’
‘Thirty-six,’ he answered.
‘Why,’ I said, ‘you have thirty years to live.’
‘Yes; and what years?’
‘Famous years. Brilliant years.’
He shook his head.
‘I am done for—’ he murmured, and his head sank.
‘Are you so weak, then?’ I took his hand. ‘Are you so weak? Look at me.’