She sat down and turned her face away as if she dismissed him; Jerome Caryl rose heavily.
“Do you want money?” asked Delia in a weary voice. “There is plenty—you know Perseus had the last sent over by the King. I have it here.”
“It is all too little for your own needs,” he answered. “Keep it, Delia.”
Her head had sunk back against the plaster wall.
“To-morrow, then,” she said, and seemed as if she wished to say no more; but when he had his hand on the latch he was startled by her: she rose, her apathy changed into sudden passion.
“Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” she cried, hurrying to him. “Thank God for such as you. Thank God for truth and honor and faithfulness. Give me your hand and look at me and say—God bless you, Delia!” She swayed toward him with a little sob and caught his arm; he was greatly moved.
“While I live, sweet soul,” he answered, “I would not have you fear anything. God bless you truly, dear, God bless you, Delia—”
She bent her head and kissed his hand, then lifted her eyes to his with a strange took. “Farewell, Jerome,” she said in a broken voice, and fell back against the wall; the contrast of her pitiful pale youth and the sordid surroundings touched Jerome Caryl deeply.
“You must leave this place,” he said.
She stopped him with that word again. “To-morrow.”