Abinger and Poppy talked together in a friendly, natural fashion that they had never known before. He congratulated her about her work, said how much he had enjoyed reading her last book, and asked her if she had sold the African rights of her plays, as they were sure to bring in a large sum. She told him she had long ago sold all rights and spent the money; that, indeed, she had spent most of her money, and must begin to think about earning more at once. He knew, of course, about her loss of all the work she had recently done. Suddenly the recollection swept over her that it was to fight him that she wanted the money. She stood still in their idle sauntering, and faced him. All the terror and misery of the past, that he indirectly had been the cause of, came back. Yet she could not hate him when she saw his haggard, distorted face. And how ill he looked! For a moment she forgot her wrongs, in womanly pity.
"You look ill, Luce," she said kindly.
"I am ill; I am a starving man." He came near her and looked at her. "You and I are both starving—for something we can't have. I have never been able to discover what it is you want—or, to be more precise, who—but you know very well who it is, and what, that I want."
She drew back from the look in his eyes. His tone changed instantly; he looked and spoke idly.
"Well—my offer holds good at any time."
"Your offer?"
"Yes ... don't forget it ... I know that the mere fact of money is nothing to you ... but you're not happy. If you like work and fame, well—you don't look like a girl who does, that's all!"
They were walking now over the dew-spangled lawn, and she was wondering what he meant. Suddenly he stood still and began to stammer at her incoherently.
"When I told you the truth in that letter, I did not do it in the spirit that a man throws up the sponge—don't think that! I did it," he continued hoarsely, "to be fair and square with you for once. To begin again with the way clear before us—if you will. It was a rather fine thing to do, I thought," his tone changed to the old, sneering one; "but like all the fine things I've ever done it ended in repentance. I know now that I was a fool to tell you."
"What are you talking about, Luce?" she wonderingly asked. Then for the first time since she had locked her studio door on it she remembered his unread letter. "Is it something you told me in the letter you sent to the cottage?—I never read it. It was burned unopened the night of the fire."