"And you cannot—help me?"
"H-help you?... Oh, no, no, no!" She broke down, sobbing in the chair, her golden head buried in her arms.
Confused, miserable, he watched her. Already the old helpless feeling had come surging back, that there was to be no chance for him in the world, no hope of all he had dared to believe in, no future. Watching her he felt his own courage falling with her tears, his own will drooping as she drooped there—slender and white in her thin, black gown.
Again he spoke, for the moment forgetting himself.
"Don't cry, because there is nothing to cry about. You know I did not mean to hurt you; I know that you would help me if you could. Isn't it true?"
"Y-yes," she sobbed.
"It was only a sculptor who asked you, not a man at all. You understand what I mean?—only a poor devil of a sculptor, carried away by the glamour of a chance for better fortune that seemed to open before him for a moment. So you must not feel distressed or sensitive or ashamed——"
She sat up, wet eyed, cheeks aflame.
"I am thinking of you!" she cried, almost fiercely, "not of myself; and you don't understand! Do you think I would cry over myself? I—it is because I cannot help you!"