“Gentle friend! I am used to all the hardness and vulgarity against which a woman has to break her heart and spirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now think of that. And think whether I can be hurt by anything your kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grateful!”
“Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and child, for the last three months. I fear you have scarcely made five shillings a week.”
“I have not made that for the last month.”
“And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with your needle, I mean.”
“Ah, no, no.”
“And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor child! your very shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me—I have spoken rudely.”
“No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth can be told in the spirit of love.”
“And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon your sick bed—then what will become of your child?”
“Alas, God knows! If we both could die—”
“Yes, if you both could. Death is no evil at all.” As the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the door—fixed in an intense, suffering, almost querulous gaze—as if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly at last,” she said, looking up, suddenly. “My dear, have you any insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for yourself?”