"But Mrs. Geraldine said you had all her money."
"Then Mrs. Geraldine will have to be informed, very kindly, that her income is mortgaged for the next two years. I had to do it. You see, she has a little annuity, which she lets me collect. Well, I was embarrassed. I had to borrow money against it. So, you see, that’s that! She hasn’t anything; and I—I’m penniless as a gipsy. Now you comprehend, I hope."
And to her amazement he began to write again.
"Say!" she cried. "This won’t do!"
"Don’t bother me, my dear girl. I’m at work," he said, frowning. "On a poem."
"But you can’t put me off like this!"
"I’m writing!" he cried, in a sudden rage. "I don’t care about you and your money. Let me alone!"
"You’ve got to stop writing, then. I don’t care about you and your writing. You’ve got to pay me!"
He sprang to his feet.
"Get out!" he shouted. "How dare you trouble me about your dirty money? Good God! Lines such as I had, ready to put down, and to have them ruined by a greedy, good-for-nothing little servant girl! I have no money. If I had, I wouldn’t give it to you. You don’t deserve it. Idling away your time, aping your betters, draggling about in their cast-off finery! If they weren’t both of them lazy and worthless themselves, they’d have turned you out long ago. Get out!"