"What about the girl in the Rue des Francs-Bouchers?" asked Emmy.
"If I were a good Catholic, I would have two, for then I could get absolution," he cried gaily, and laughed immoderately at his jest.
The days of his visits were marked red in Emmy's calendar.
"I wish I were a funny beggar, and had lots of conversation like our friend Cruchot, and could make you laugh," said Septimus one day, when the tædium vitæ lay heavy on her.
"If you had a sense of humor you wouldn't be here," she replied, with some bitterness.
Septimus rubbed his thin hands together thoughtfully.
"I don't know why you should say that," said he. "I never heard a joke I didn't see the point of. I'm rather good at it."
"If you don't see the point of this joke, I can't explain it, my dear. It has a point the size of a pyramid."
He nodded and looked dreamily out of the window at the opposite houses. Sometimes her sharp sayings hurt him. But he understood all, in his dim way, and pardoned all. He never allowed her to see him wince. He stood so long silent that Emmy looked up anxiously at his face, dreading the effect of her words. His hand hung by his side—he was near the sofa where she lay. She took it gently, in a revulsion of feeling, kissed it, and, as he turned, flung it from her.
"Go, my dear; go. I'm not fit to talk to you. Yes, go. You oughtn't to be here; you ought to be in England in your comfortable home with Wiggleswick and your books and inventions. You're too good for me, and I'm hateful. I know it, and it drives me mad."