“What is she discontented about?” Matthew asked, uneasily. “She’s got plenty of money.”
“Oh, it isn’t the money,” replied Billy, morosely. “She’s lucky, is Rosina. She has money of her own. Do you know, her little American property has gone up a good deal lately. Her income is nearer nine hundred than eight hundred dollars.”
“Indeed?” murmured his brother, dimly interested.
“Yes, old Coble wrote to her, telling her things were looking up, and he was right. No, it isn’t Rosina that’s got cause of complaint about money matters. She isn’t like me—she isn’t dependent on you for every farthing.” His words rang bitterly, resentfully.
“But surely you don’t mind taking money from me, Billy?” he said, with infinite gentleness.
“And why shouldn’t I mind taking money from a stranger?”
“A stranger!”
“Yes, you’re naught else. Do you think I don’t know of your goings-on, your gaddings about to parties and banquets? Because Rosina don’t read the papers, you mustn’t think I’m ignorant, too. I’ve got a heap of things about you in my study, all cut out and pasted in books. I don’t tell Rosina, because it would only make her discontented, but it riles me, I tell you straight, to be left here, leading this wretched, lonesome life. Why can’t I live with you?”
“You could live with me to-morrow if you liked, Billy. But don’t you see you’d be just as wretched and lonesome? All day I should be at work, and when I went out you couldn’t accompany me. I can’t foist my relatives on the people who invite me out. They only want me—and that only as a curiosity,” he added, with a bitter perception of how extrinsic he really was to the charmed circles of Society; of how little affinity there was between him and the bulk of those who gushed over his Art.
“But if you would only help me to get my work published, they’d make a fuss over me, too. But you’ve never moved your little finger to help me.”