"Are you paid for coming to me?" asked eagerly.
The words seemed rude enough, but there was no rudeness in the manner.
"No, I am not paid," she said gently; and then she took a chair and sat near him.
"Ah, that's well!" he said, with a sigh of relief "I'm so tired of paid service. To know that things are done for me because a certain amount of francs are given so that those things may be done—well, one gets weary of it; that's all!"
There was bitterness in every word he spoke. "I lie here," he said, "and the loneliness of it—the loneliness of it!"
"Shall I read to you?" she asked kindly. She did not know what to say to him.
"I want to talk first," he replied. "I want to talk first to some one who is not paid for talking to me. I have often watched you, and wondered who you were. Why do you look so sad? No one is waiting for you to die?"
"Don't talk like that!" she said; and she bent over him and arranged the cushions for him more comfortably. He looked just like a great lank tired child.
"Are you one of my wife's friends?" he asked.
"I don't suppose I am," she answered gently; "but I like her, all the same. Indeed, I like her very much. And I think her beautiful!"