On this night I was in such a depressed mood that, despite Mr. Butler's eloquence, I was unable to rouse myself from the morbid fancies that were now flooding my mind. For the imagination that had carried me up on dizzying dreams of fame now showed me pictures of myself starving and homeless; and just as the first pictures had exhilarated, now the latter terrified and distracted me.
Mrs. Kingston noticed my silence, and asked me if I were not feeling well. She said I did not seem quite myself. I said I was all right. When I was going, she asked me in a whisper whether I had heard from Mr. Hamilton, and I shook my head; and then she wanted to know whether he knew of my "success." Something screamed and cried within me at that question. My success! Was she mocking me then?
Bennet had asked to see me home, and as it was still early,—only about nine,—he suggested that we take a little walk along the lake.
It was a beautiful night, and though only a few weeks from Christmas, not at all cold. Mrs. Kingston had apparently told Mr. Bennet of my writing, for he tried to make me talk about it. I was not, however, in a very communicative mood. I talked disjointedly. I started to tell him about my stories, and then all of a sudden I remembered how I was fixed, and then I couldn't talk at all. In fact, I pitied myself so that I began to cry. It was dark in the street, and I cried silently; so I didn't suppose he noticed me until he stopped short and said:
"You're in trouble. Can't you tell me what is the matter?"
"I've got only ten cents in the world," I blurted out.
"What!"
"Just ten cents," I said, "and I can't get work."
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "You poor girl!"