“Hum! no! I don’t think she would. But what good would it do? You would only cause suffering and estrangement, and you would gain nothing. I told you I had no money to give you.”
Looking around the shabby room she saw the soiled linen I was trying to do into a newspaper parcel. This evidently convinced her I was speaking the truth.
“Bah!” she said, “why do you insult me with offers of money? If you offered me ten thousand francs at this moment I would refuse them. What I want is help, sympathy.”
“Oh! If it’s sympathy you want,” I said eagerly, “I’m there. I’ve gallons of it on tap. But help—what can I do?”
“You have friends you can introduce me to. Can you not find me work of some kind? Anything at all that will bring me an honest living. Remember I am only a poor, weak woman, and I love you.”
Here she showed signs of weeping again.
“Well,” I said, touched once more, “I don’t know. The men I know are all artists.” Then an idea shot through me like a bullet. To cure a woman who is infatuated with you, introduce her to some man who is more fascinating than yourself. But to whom could I transfer this embarrassing affection? Helstern? He was out of the question. Lorrimer? Ah, there was the man. Handsome, debonnaire Lorrimer; Lorrimer who prided himself on being such a Lothario; whom I had heard say: “Why should I wrong the sex whose privilege it is to love me by permitting any one member to monopolise me?” Yes, Lorrimer should be the lucky one. So I said:
“Let me see: you would not care to pose for the artists, would you?”
“Ah, yes, I think that would suit me very well indeed.”
“Well, then, I’ll give you the address of an artist friend. He’s poor, but he knows every one. Perhaps he can help you. At least there will be no harm in trying.”