"I can't write it!" he cried, torn with the pathos of the words she bade him put to paper.
"——of what might have been. My friends of the theatre must pass out of my life. They can have no use for a crippled, helpless woman, nor do I wish to cloud their happiness with my unwanted presence. Say good-bye to them for me. And you, my dear Barrèze, I would thank for the chance you gave me. Your encouragement would have had its reward if I had kept my sight. But it is gone—gone for always—and I am wreckage on the rocks...."
"Elaine, Elaine!" he cried. "You have me by your side! I ask you to let me devote my life to you!"
The answer came gently: "I must not accept such a sacrifice. You offer it out of pity for me. Later, you would repent of it. You have your work to do and your life to live in the open sunshine.... Yet don't think me ungrateful. I am deeply grateful. I shall remember what you said out of pity for me, and treasure it amongst my dearest thoughts."
"It's not pity, Elaine, but——"
He stopped abruptly. The accusing hand of memory had touched him on the shoulder. He had no right to make any such offer—it had come from his heart in passionate sincerity, but it was not his to give. Olive was still his wife. Disguise it as he would, he was still Clifford Matheson.
He must leave Elaine to think that pity alone had moulded his words. To explain to her now the shackles of circumstance that bound him fast would be sheer cruelty, for if she knew the whole truth, she would send him away from her and refuse even the temporary help he could give her.
For Elaine's sake he must keep silent.
A pause of bitter reflection raised a barrier of stone between them. When he spoke again, it was from the other side of the barrier. "At least you will let me stay by you until you leave Hegelmann's charge? That I claim.... And I believe he will be able to do for you much more than you imagine. He has worked wonders before. He will do so again. He is the foremost specialist in the world. All that money can command shall be yours."