“No, no, it was my fault. I could have explained everything so easily. But after all, it’s too late. What does it matter now?”
“No, it does not mattaire much now. I am so glad for you you have got divorce from me. I am very bad womans. Please excuse me.”
“Yes, yes; but forgive me. I never cared enough for you—or at least I never showed I cared. Now I know.”
“You care now. Oh, that will make me so happy. You know there is not much longer for me. The doctor tell me so. I am poitrinaire.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a resigned little grimace.
“But,” she went on, “now I shall be so glad. I don’t care for myself. You remember for laughing you used to call me ‘Poor leetle Sing,’ and I say: ‘No, I am not poor leetle sing, I am very, very, ’appy leetle sing.’ Ah! but now I am poor leetle sing indeed.”
“Can I not help you? I must.”
“No, I will take nussing from you. And anyway it would not help much. I make enough from my hem-broderie to leeve, and I don’t want any pleasure some more. Just to leeve. The sisters at the convent are very good to me. I see them often, and when I am sick at the last I know they will care for me. Really I am very well. Now I must go; I must work; I lose time.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, let me do something!”
“No, I am very good. I sink at you always, and I bless you. You see I have the good souvenirs.”