She greeted him, therefore, with a sick little smile, and allowed him to limp along beside her. The studio building was in a street in the Thirties and east of Lexington Avenue. To take the way by which she usually went, they sauntered toward the sunset.
"You're in trouble, Jennie, aren't you?"
The kindly tone touched her. He was always kind. He was always looking for little things he could do. It was part of the trouble with him from her point of view that he was so watchful and overshadowing. He poured out so much more than her cup was able to receive that he frightened her. All the same, his sympathy, coming at this minute, started her tears afresh.
"Is it things at home?" he persisted, when she didn't respond.
Thinking this enough for him to know, she admitted that it was.
"I've got something in my pocket that would—that would help all that—in the long run."
From anyone else this would have alarmed her. She would have taken it to mean money, money which she would in her own way be expected to repay. As it was she merely turned her swimming eyes toward him in mild curiosity.
"Look!"
Seeing a little white box which could contain nothing but a ring held between his thumb and forefinger on the edge of his waistcoat pocket, she flushed with annoyance.
"I think you'd better go away," she said, coldly, pausing to give him the chance to take his leave.