“She will if she thinks she can get food and warmth here. I know she will, worse luck. But remember, old man, she isn’t a woman; she’s my model; and be careful.”
“The idea! She’s a dissolute little scarecrow,—a gutter-snippet and nothing more.”
“So you think. Wait till she has been fed a little and freed from fear. That fair type recovers itself very quickly. You won’t know her in a week or two, when that abject fear has died out of her eyes. She’ll be too happy and smiling for my purposes.”
“But surely you’re not taking her out of charity?—to please me?”
“I am not in the habit of playing with hot coals to please anybody. She has been sent from heaven, as I may have remarked before, to help me with my Melancolia.”
“Never heard a word about the lady before.”
“What’s the use of having a friend, if you must sling your notions at him in words? You ought to know what I’m thinking about. You’ve heard me grunt lately?”
“Even so; but grunts mean anything in your language, from bad “baccy to wicked dealers. And I don’t think I’ve been much in your confidence for some time.”
“It was a high and soulful grunt. You ought to have understood that it meant the Melancolia.” Dick walked Torpenhow up and down the room, keeping silence. Then he smote him in the ribs, “Now don’t you see it? Bessie’s abject futility, and the terror in her eyes, welded on to one or two details in the way of sorrow that have come under my experience lately. Likewise some orange and black,—two keys of each. But I can’t explain on an empty stomach.”
“It sounds mad enough. You’d better stick to your soldiers, Dick, instead of maundering about heads and eyes and experiences.”