“I love you still,” she went on; “I have traced you here; I am friendless, alone, in this great and cruel city. What must I do?”
As she said these words, Lucretia, after seeing that she possessed a handkerchief, applied it to her eyes so as not to disturb their cosmetic environment, and wept carefully. There was no doubting the genuineness of her grief. I was touched. After all had I not roused a romantic passion in this poor girl’s heart? Was she not the victim of my fatal charms? My heart ached for her. I would have sat down on the sofa by her side and tried to comfort her, but prudence forbade.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but how can I help you? I have no money, and my wife is in the hospital.”
“Your wife!”
“Yes; I’m married.”
“Not one of those girls I saw you with in the café that night?”
“Yes; the small one.”
“A—h.” She prolonged the exclamation. Then she delicately dried her eyes. “That is different. What if I tell your wife how you treated me?”
“But I’ve done you no harm.”
“Would she believe that, do you think?”