"About a hundred shillings," I confessed, thinking that a hundred shillings was an enormous sum. He put his hand on the handle of the door, and looked at me entreatingly. "They might be looking for you, and you must go; the porter will hand you all you want to-morrow." But I did not go. Pressing myself still harder against the wall, I looked up at him, and my lips trembled as I said: "Are you cross with me for having asked you?" "You are a child," he said with great decision; "let me tell you once and for all that I am your friend, to whom you not only _may_, but _must_, confide all your troubles"--his face wore the entreating look again--"but go now, please." I obeyed as if I was in a dream. The porter handed me an envelope the next morning, and when I tore it open I saw that it contained neatly folded bank-notes. From that day onward I felt boundlessly grateful towards my friend, loved him, if such was possible, more than I had done before, and could hardly control my affection whenever we met. He, however, remained the same. To him my poems were the sole and constant source of conversation, and perfect though I thought them, he was far from being satisfied. Now and again he would acknowledge the beauty of a thought or verse, and the slightest praise from him was sweet reward to me. There were, of course, still times when our opinions differed, when I grew sulky and obstinate, and even went so far as to behave with the rudeness of a naughty child. But he never lost his composure; it was generally his calmness and silence that made me conscious of my fault, and I never failed to beg his pardon as soon as I had realized that I was in the wrong. He on his part was always ready to forgive me, and our friendship was established firmly once more. But in my heart of hearts I was discontented. "Why," I said to myself, "does he not tell me the one thing that alone is able to make a woman truly happy? Why does he not give me the slightest sign of his love? Or does he not love me?" That question made my limbs shake as if I had received a terrible shock, and many times I sat up in my bed at night staring, with my hands crossed tightly in the darkness around me. Was there, perhaps, another girl of whom he thought, as I thought of him every hour of the day? I shuddered at the inexpressible loneliness that would fall to my lot if such were the case, recalled every word, every look of his, and lay, testing, weighing, wondering, until all thoughts had merged into confusion and my eyelids closed. One day we had arranged to meet alone. I was so impatient that I arrived half an hour before the time fixed for the appointment, but he was already waiting for me. Both of us had more time to spare on this day, and I hoped secretly that he might at last speak. He did speak, but what he said was not what I had expected to hear. He told me of his boyhood, of his more mature years, and of a first love that had left him disappointed with life.