"And how do you know I'm not?"
"I know it from what you said yourself—that last time."
"What did I say?"'
"That if it wasn't trouble it was misfortune."
"Oh, that!"
"Yes, that. Isn't it enough? And then I know it— Well, can't I see?"
I tried to laugh this off. "Oh, I know I'm rather seedy-looking, but then—"
"You're worse than seedy-looking; you're—you're—tragic—to me. Oh, I know I haven't any right to say so; but that's what I complain of, that's what I rebel against, that we've got our conventions so stupidly organized that just because you're a man and I'm a woman I shouldn't be allowed to help you when I can."
"You do help me, with your great sympathy."
She brushed this aside. "That's no help. It doesn't feed and clothe you."