“It isn’t the work that disagrees with me; it’s the not getting any work. I’m poor!”
“Do you support yourself? Don’t you live with—those Humberts any longer?”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “You see ... I’m married.”
“Rosaleen!” he cried.
For a few moments he was silent, looking at her, filled with an immense regret, a remorse that stifled him.
“Who?” he asked at last.
“An artist.”
“But—doesn’t the fellow support you? Doesn’t he—work?”
“He tries. But he’s nearly blind.”