He was a pitiful object, sunken, shrivelled, abject. She looked on him with eyes that revealed only amusement—amusement, and power.
She asked, lightly:
"What more could I want of you? What more have you to give, My Fool?"
"There's a chance for me," he pleaded, hysterically; "a little, pitiful chance. Can't you find in that dead thing you call a heart just one shred of pity that I may have that chance that is held out to me? I don't ask much in return for all that I have given—just to be let alone…. Ah, go! Go! Please, please go!"
He was on his knees now, thin hands raised in beseeching. She looked down on him from where she sat, upon the desk, little feet swinging. She raised delicate, arched brows.
"Anyone would think," she declared, "that I had done wrong by you."
He struggled erect.
"By God, I'll have my chance!" he cried. "I'll have it in spite of you!
Do you hear? Go!"
"In good time, My Fool," she returned, easily. "When you shall have ceased to amuse me."
"You'll go now," he insisted, frenziedly. "Now!"