Keren-Happuch had reached the door.
“’Tain’t scented up like some on ’em,” she said to herself; and then she turned to look wistfully at the artist, whose eyes were fixed upon vacancy, for he was reading the letter in imagination. He knew every word of sorrowful reproach it would contain, for the letters were little varied. She would tell him of her solitary state, beg him to reconsider his decision, and ask him whether, in spite of the world and its laws, it was not a man’s duty to take compassion upon the woman who loved him with all her heart. Yes: he could read it all.
“Must get away,” he said to himself. “Why not go back home, and seek for safety behind the armour of her innocency? My poor darling, I want to be true to you, but I am sorely tempted now. It cannot be love; only a vile, degrading passion from which I must flee, for I am—Heaven knows, how weak.”
“Ain’t yer well, sir?” said Keren-Happuch, in commiserating tones.
He started, not knowing that the girl was there.
“Well? Oh yes, Miranda, quite well.”
“No, you ain’t, sir, I know; and it ain’t because you smokes too much, nor comes home all tipsy like some artisses does, for I never let you in when you wasn’t just what you are now, the nicest gent we ever had here.”
“Why, you wicked little flatterer, what does this mean?” cried Dale merrily.
“No, sir, and that won’t do,” said the girl. “I’m little, but I’m precious old, and I’ve seen and knows a deal. You ain’t well, sir!”
“Nonsense, girl! I’m quite well. There, run away.”