“Teresina, you must do as I tell you,” said Godfrey, firmly. “I insist that you get in and that you give me your address.”
She hesitated for a moment before she replied. Then she said:
“No. 16, Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road.”
Having given the address to the driver, Godfrey took his place beside the girl. He was thankful, indeed, that he had met her, but the circumstances under which he had found her distressed him more than he was able to say. As they drove along he endeavoured to elicit some information from her concerning her present life. She was not communicative, however. That there was some mystery at the back of it all, he could see, and the more he thought of it, the more unhappy he became. Poor little Teresina! He remembered her as she was when she had first sat to him for the picture which had made his name; and as he looked out upon the falling snow and the miserable streets with the dark figures scurrying along the pavement on either hand, and thought of her future, his heart sank within him. He wondered whether he could persuade her to accept a sufficient sum of money from him to enable her to return to her own country and to live in comfort there? He was rich, and after all it was not only his duty but his pleasure to help an old friend. As she seemed so distressed at meeting him, he resolved to say nothing on the subject then, however; nevertheless, he was determined in his own mind that he would write to her on the morrow and make the offer, whether she accepted it or not. At last they came to a part of the Strand which was more brilliantly illuminated than elsewhere. As they came within the circle of the light, Teresina put up her hand to push back her hair, and Godfrey noticed that she wore a wedding-ring upon her third finger. This gave him food for reflection.
“Teresina,” he said, “why did you not tell me that you were married? I thought you said you were alone in the world.”
“My husband is dead,” she answered, with what was almost a note of despair in her voice.
“Your husband dead, and your mother dead too?” he repeated, almost incredulously. “Teresina, my dear child, are you telling me the truth?”
“Why should you doubt me?” she cried. “You have no reason for doing so.”
“Because I feel that you are hiding something from me,” he said. “Is it any use my imploring you to confide in me? You know that I am your friend, and that I would help you to the best of my ability.”