“He wanted to settle money on me, but I would not have it. Then, with tears in his eyes, he went away, swearing that he would come back. Perhaps he would have, I don’t know. He was killed in a railway accident. That is one reason I do not wish to be reminded of artists. He was a famous artist. You would know his name if I told it. But I never will. I am afraid his family would try to take away Solonge.
“You see I have worked away, and my garret has been full of sunshine. Oh, how different it was! I sang, I laughed, I was the happiest woman in Paris. I’m not sorry for anything. I think I did right. Now I’ve told you, do you still think Monsieur Helstern would be willing to marry me?”
“More so than ever,” I said. “As far as I know he has pretty much the same views as you have.”
“He says so little to me. But he has been so kind, so good. I believe I owe it to him that I still have my little one.”
“Yes, he’s not a bad old sort. I don’t think you’d ever regret it.”
“You may tell him my story, then, and if he doesn’t think I’m a bad woman....”
“He’ll understand. But let me go and tell him now. He’s waiting round the corner.”
“Stop! Stop!” she protested. But I hurried away and found the sculptor seated outside the nearest café, divided between anxiety and a glass of beer.
“It’s all right, old chap,” I cried. “I’ve squared it all for you. Now you must go right in and clinch things.”
“But I’m not prepared. I—”