"But I can't. Why, I might not be able to get another position. Just look how I tramped about for weeks before I got that."
He stopped abruptly in the street.
"Don't you know, if you stay in a place like that, every bit of poetry and—er—charm—and fineness in you, and every other worth-while quality that you possess, will be literally beaten out of you? Why, that is no place for a girl like you. Now you get a pretty room—several, if you wish—and then go to work and write—write your poetry and stories and anything you want."
"But, Mr. Hamilton, I can't afford to do that."
He switched his cane with a sort of savage impatience.
"Nonsense!" he said. "You can afford to have anything you want. I'll give you anything—anything you want."
He repeated this sweepingly, almost angrily, and after a moment I said:
"Well, why should you do this for me?"
I was saying to myself that I would let him do anything for me if he did it because he cared for me. If not, I could take nothing from him. I waited in a sort of agony for his answer. It came slowly, as if he were carefully choosing his words: