“Mr. Verreker,” she said, with emotion, “after a fortnight of not seeing me, can’t you spare me one evening?”
“Of course if you’ve anything particular to say to me—any help you want—of course—I——”
“Not that! That’s not the point. Mayn’t I never come to you except when I’ve something definite I want to ask you for? Aren’t we friends?”
“Certainly.”
“Then why can’t you come out with me when I ask you to?”
“Oh yes, I will, but——”
“You’re the only friend I have. Don’t you know that?”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I am bound to say it is to some extent your own fault that you have not more.”
They were standing in front of the fire. At this last remark she moved till her face was a few inches from his. Her eyes were flashing with anger, yet dim with tears like a mirror breathed upon: her hands were clenched and quivering as if she were thinking to strike him. All her body, every limb and muscle of her, was vibrant with passion.
“Mr. Verreker,” she cried, “why do you keep saying things that hurt me? Am I nothing to you at all? Don’t you care one tiny scrap for what I feel? Oh, I know I’m very imperfect—I daresay I’m all wrong, to your way of thinking, but have you ever lifted a finger to make me different? Have you ever cared whether I was different or not?”