“I suppose it was seeing the owner of it face to face. I’d sunk low enough to steal from some one I couldn’t visualize—but what’s the use? It’s mere hair-splitting. Just let me say that this is my first attempt, and it hasn’t succeeded. I may do better next time if I can get up the nerve.”
“Oh, but there won’t be a next time.”
“That we shall have to see.”
“Suppose”—the mixture of embarrassment and pity made it hard for her to speak—“suppose I said I was sorry for you.”
“You don’t have to say it. I see it. It’s something I shall never forget as long as I live.”
“Well, since I’m sorry for you, won’t you let me—?”
“No,” I interrupted, firmly. “I’m grateful for your pity; I’ll accept that; but I won’t take anything else.” I began moving toward the door. “Since you’re good enough to let me go, I had better be off; but I can’t do it without thanking you.”
For the first time she smiled a little. Even in that dim light I could see it was what in normal conditions would be commonly called a generous smile, full, frank, and kindly. Just now it was little more than a quivering of the long scarlet lips. She glanced toward the little heap of things on the desk.
“If it comes to that, I have to thank you.”
I raised my hand deprecatingly.