"Blessed unmanliness!" whispered Pen, brooding over him.
Presently she jerked her head up as if she needed more air, more light. The moon shone in her wet face. It was transfigured.
He was still humbled over her knees. "This isn't the way I wanted to come to the woman I love," he said bitterly. "I've nothing to offer you ... less than nothing ..."
"Do you want to buy me or to love me," she murmured with soft reproach.
He scarcely heard her. "It is impossible for you to respect a man who is as dependent on you as a baby!"
Pen put her cheek in his hair. "Foolish one! What has respect to do with it?"
"You can only be sorry for me!"
Her hands turned over and found his face. "Foolish! Foolish! Foolish!" she murmured. "You must have got your idea of loving out of books! ... How selfish you are!"
He raised his head, struck by the word.
Her voice deepened. "Don't you understand how sweet it has been for me to work for you; to lie for you; to steal food out of the house? Why do you begrudge it to me? ... Oh, sometimes I could almost wish you had committed a murder so I could go with you and be disgraced with you!"