Olive.
I—I don’t—think of that.
Theophila.
Well, I can’t say anything more than—I’m sorry.
[Olive rises, and, with faltering steps, comes to her.
Olive.
Excuse me being so persistent. [Piteously.] You won’t accept my help? [Theophila, leaning back with closed eyes, shakes her head.] You won’t even—try?
Theophila.
[Faintly, almost inaudibly.] It would be of no use; I couldn’t.
Olive.