“Won’t you take something now?” she entreated. “A nice hot cup of cocoa?”
“No; not cocoa.”
He sighed and once more closed his eyes, which frightened Rosaleen.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Stay near me!” he said. “Don’t leave me alone!”
“Of course I won’t!” she answered.
He stayed there in the studio for nearly three weeks, sitting about in his dressing gown, smoking and reading. One day he ordered a taxi and sent Rosaleen to the flat where he had been living, to fetch him a long list of things, including his painting materials, and when she returned, he set up his easel and began to work.
“I may have six months more, you know,” he said. “I can see almost as well as ever now. The colours aren’t quite so clear, perhaps....”
Rosaleen was delighted to see him taking an interest in something; she had for so long looked upon him as an invalid, almost unable to move, for whose recovery she was more or less responsible. She felt that this new interest in his work might serve to rouse him from that apathy which so distressed and alarmed her. She sat watching him, with affection, with admiration. He was singing to himself, in a deep, growling basso, and working just as she had seen him working in his studio downstairs.... When suddenly he flung down the brushes and fell on his knees, so heavily that the room shook.
“Oh, my God!” he cried. “I can’t bear it! I can’t live!... It’s going from me!... Oh, let me die! Let me die...!”