"It's Mr. Dalny, madam," he said in the kindest, most sympathetic voice that ever came out of his throat.
The door opened softly, and her face peered through the crack. Tears were in her eyes—old and new tears—following one another down her furrowed cheeks.
"He is gone away; they took him last night, Mr. Dalny." Her voice broke, but she still kept the edge of the door in her trembling hand.
"Yes; I have just heard about it. Let me come in, please; I want to help you. You are all alone."
Her grasp slackened, and Dalny stepped in. The room was in some confusion. The bed where her brother had been ill was still in disorder, the screen that had concealed it pushed to one side. On a table by his easel were the remains of a meal. The masterpiece still stared out from its place. The sister walked to a lounge and sat down.
"Tell me the truth," Dalny said, seating himself beside her. "Have you any money?"
"No; our letter has not come."
"What do you expect to do?"
"I must sell something."