“He means I’m no use to him. I know I’m not. I can’t even sit on his manuscripts and keep them down. He cares more for that damned paper-weight than he does for me.”
“Well—George Meredith gave it me.”
“And nobody gave you me. I gave myself.”
That worked up his devil again. He had to torment her.
“It can’t have cost you much,” he said. “And I may remind you that the paper-weight has some intrinsic value.”
With that he left her.
“What’s he gone out for?” she asked me.
“Because he’s ashamed of himself, I suppose,” I said. “Oh, Cicely, why will you answer him? You know what he is.”
“No!” she said passionately—“that’s what I don’t know. I never have known.”
“At least you know he’s in love with you.”