“Don’t,” he said, hoarsely. “I’m miserable enough.”
“I don’t wish you to feel miserable,” she said. “I have a very exalted idea of you. I—I understand artists.”
“They’re fools,” he said. “Say anything you like before I go. I had—hoped for—perhaps for your friendship. But a woman can’t respect a fool.”
He rose in his humiliation.
“I can ask no privileges,” he said, “but I must say one thing before I go. You have a book there which bears the signature of an artist named Marlitt. I am very anxious for his address; I think I have important news for him—good news. That is why I ask it.”
The girl looked at him quietly.
“What news have you for him?”
“I suppose you have a right to ask,” he said, “or you would not ask. I do not know Marlitt. I liked his work. Mr. Calvert suggested that Marlitt should return to resume work—”
“No,” said the girl, “you suggested it.”
He was staggered. “Did you even hear that!” he gasped.