Margaret was obliged to go. Her heart beat horribly. She looked down at Oliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him. Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. He opened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his face. “For the love of God, take me in for one moment,” he sobbed. “I shall die in the street.” Her heart was moved towards him. He could not go into the poky den, evil-smelling and airless, of the _concierge_. But with her help Margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the studio. He sank painfully into a chair. “Shall I fetch you some water?” asked Margaret. “Can you get a pastille out of my pocket?” He swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached to his watch-chain. “I’m very sorry to cause you this trouble,” he gasped. “I suffer from a disease of the heart, and sometimes I am very near death.” “I’m glad that I was able to help you,” she said. He seemed able to breathe more easily. She left him to himself for a while, so that he might regain his strength. She took up a book and began to read. Presently, without moving from his chair, he spoke. “You must hate me for intruding on you.” His voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. She answered with freezing indifference. “I couldn’t do any less for you than I did. I would have brought a dog into my room if it seemed hurt.” “I see that you wish me to go.” He got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with a groan tumbled to his knees. Margaret sprang forward to help him. She reproached herself bitterly for those scornful words. The man had barely escaped death, and she was merciless. “Oh, please stay as long as you like,” she cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she, conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. She poured out a glass of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not be beholden to her even for that. “Is there nothing I can do for you at all?” she exclaimed, painfully. “Nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair,” he gasped. “I hope you’ll remain as long as you choose.” He did not reply. She sat down again and pretended to read. In a little while he began to speak. His voice reached her as if from a long way off. “Will you never forgive me for what I did the other day?” She answered without looking at him, her back still turned. “Can it matter to you if I forgive or not?” “You have not pity. I told you then how sorry I was that a sudden uncontrollable pain drove me to do a thing which immediately I bitterly regretted. Don’t you think it must have been hard for me, under the actual circumstances, to confess my fault?” “I wish you not to speak of it. I don’t want to think of that horrible scene.” “If you knew how lonely I was and how unhappy, you would have a little mercy.”