He shook his head. "Worse," he sobbed. "Far worse! Oh, what will become of me? What will become of me? Lord, have mercy upon me! Lord, have mercy upon me!"
Her lip curled. Perhaps she was comparing him with another youth who had spoken to her that morning in a different strain.
"I don't think it matters much," she said scornfully, "what becomes of you."
"Matters?" he exclaimed.
"If you are such a coward as this! Tell me what it is. What has happened? If it is not that some one has beaten you, I don't know what it is—unless you have been doing something wrong, and they have put you out of the University? Is it that?"
"No!" he cried fretfully. "Worse, worse! And do you leave me! You can do nothing! No one can do anything!"
She had her own troubles, and to-day was almost sinking under them. But this was not her way of bearing them. She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "Very well," she said, "I will go if I can do nothing."
"Do?" he cried vehemently. "What can you do?" And then, in the act of turning from him, she stood; so startling was the change, so marvellous the transformation which she saw come over his face. "Do," he repeated, trembling violently, and speaking in a tone as much altered as his expression. He rose to his feet. "Do? Perhaps you—you can do something—still. Wait. Please wait a minute! I—I was not quite myself." He passed his hand across his brow. She did not know that behind his face of frightened stupor his mind was working cunningly, following up the idea that had occurred to him.
She began to think him mad. But though she held him in distaste, she had no fear of him; and even when he closed the door with a cringing air, and a look that implored indulgence, she held her ground. "Only, you need not close the door," she said coldly. "There is no one in the house except my mother."
"Messer Basterga?"