She laid both her hands against his shoulders, looking straight into his eyes.
“Because I don’t like to see a splendid ship go down.”
“I—a splendid ship?” he said, with an incredulous laugh.
“One in ten thousand.”
He laughed again, moving irritably.
“So you believe in me, do you?”
“Absolutely.”
He caught his breath, stood silent a long moment in a conflict of emotions, yielding, longing, haunted, and rebellious. At the end he said scornfully:
“Yes, they all do—at first. Well, you’re wrong!”
With which he stalked away without further notice. He did not come back that night at all, though the light shone under her door patiently. Late the next afternoon, Sassafras came into the studio with a mysterious gesture to King O’Leary, who was taking tea at the hands of Myrtle Popper and pretending to like it. Together they carried Dangerfield to his room. He was in a dreadful condition—a soiled and hopeless mass from the gutter out of which he had been rescued.