"Yes; and your ill-luck has come through your own fault. Till you cure yourself you're not fit to cure others."
He sank back into his seat, glowering at her under sullen brows; then his expression gradually changed to half-sneering admiration. "You're a plucky one!" he said.
Justine repressed a movement of disgust. "I am very sorry for you," she said gravely. "I saw this trouble coming on you long ago—and if there is any other way in which I can help you——"
"Thanks," he returned, still sneering. "Your sympathy is very precious—there was a time when I would have given my soul for it. But that's over, and I'm here to talk business. You say you saw my trouble coming on—did it ever occur to you that you were the cause of it?"
Justine glanced at him with frank contempt. "No—for I was not," she replied.
"That's an easy way out of it. But you took everything from me—first my hope of marrying you; then my chance of a big success in my career; and I was desperate—weak, if you like—and tried to deaden my feelings in order to keep up my pluck."
Justine rose to her feet with a movement of impatience. "Every word you say proves how unfit you are to assume any responsibility—to do anything but try to recover your health. If I can help you to that, I am still willing to do so."
Wyant rose also, moving a step nearer. "Well, get me that place, then—I'll see to the rest: I'll keep straight."
"No—it's impossible."
"You won't?"