He stared at her. Were women as good, as fine as this? Was he the only vile thing in existence then? What would Jill think if she could see into the pit of his mind now? So low had he fallen that he thought it impossible to struggle upwards; so low, that it seemed he must touch the utmost depth before he could get the purchase to regain his feet. And if he touched the lowest, he might rise again, but it would not be so high as before.
Amber watched all the thoughts in his face. She had done her utmost. She could not do more. If he did not fight it out from this, then, what must be, must be.
Yet one more thing she could do. If she spoke of Venice. But why should she say it? It was his battle, not hers. She had given him every weapon to wage it but this. Why should she say it? The battle was against herself. Yet she answered to the best. There was her ideal as well, however unconscious it may have been.
"When are you going to Venice?" she asked hoarsely.
He told her how he had spent some of the money--more than a pound of it was gone.
She pulled out her purse, quickly, fiercely, feverishly.
"Then won't you be able to go?" she asked.
"Not for a while."
"Won't your mother be disappointed,--the little old white-haired lady?"
He tried to beat back the emotion in his throat, then felt something cold and hard in his hand. He looked down. It was a sovereign.