"What would you know?"
The tone of this question, doubtful, almost distrustful, and yet submissive and compliant, struck Theodore's delicate ear. He drew a stool near the couch, seized Bianchi's hand and said--
"I wish to know nothing, except how you feel now; and if you are in no humour to talk, make a sign with your hand, which now betrays but slight remains of your fever."
He felt the pressure of the hand, which then withdrew itself hesitatingly from his.
"You will soon be so well that we shall be able to part without the necessity of meeting again. For the present you must resign yourself to my intrusiveness; for you must know that I have made up my mind not to let the carelessness of a stupid boy be the destruction of such an artist as you are."
"As I am!" and he laughed sadly. "Do you know what I am? Who knows it not? A day labourer am I, cutting shells for women, with a woman's patience, whose stout arms are ashamed of him when they encounter a piece of marble. Well, perhaps, yesterday the matter was arranged so that the poor cripples will have nothing to reproach themselves for in future!"
"You talk strangely--as if there were not room enough within a circle of two inches for a soul that can at times express itself in two words."
"For the idea, possibly, but hardly for the execution."
"You must have experienced that," said Theodore. "But are you obliged to do what is so disagreeable to you?"
The sick man cast a quiet look around the four bare walls, and said--