Johannah did not answer.
“I’m miserably, tragically poor; you’re rich. At this moment I’ve not got ten pounds in the world; and I owe hundreds. I’ve not sold a picture since March. You have eight thousand a year. You can’t expect me to sit down under it in silence. As the French attorneys phrase it, cet état de choses ne peut pas durer.”
Still Johannah answered nothing.
“You must come to my relief,” said he. “You must make it possible for me to go on. If you have any right feeling, you’ll do it spontaneously. If not—you know I can compel you.”
“Oh, then, for goodness’ sake, compel me, and so make an end of this entirely tedious visit,” she broke out.
“I’d immensely rather not compel you. If you will lend me a helping hand from time to time, I’ll promise never to take a step to harm you. I shall be moderate. You’ve got eight thousand a year. You’d never miss a hundred now and then. You might simply occasionally buy a picture. That would be the best way. You might buy my pictures.”
“I should be glad to know definitely,” remarked Johannah, “whether I have to deal with a blackmailer or a bagman.”
“Damn you,” he exploded, with sudden savagery, flushing very red indeed.
Johannah was silent.
After a pause, he said, “I’m staying at the inn in the village—at the Silver Arms.”