“Stay a minute longer. I must speak. After all, you can’t grudge me that.” “What is the good? I’ve made up my mind. Nothing that you can say will make me alter it.” He gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating. “I’m not going to ask you to change your mind, but I want you to listen to me for a minute. It’s the last thing I shall ever ask you. Don’t refuse me that.” She paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers, which now were so different to him. She came back into the studio and leaned against the table. “Well?” Stroeve made a great effort to collect himself. “You must be a little reasonable. You can’t live on air, you know. Strickland hasn’t got a penny.” “I know.” “You’ll suffer the most awful privations. You know why he took so long to get well. He was half starved.” “I can earn money for him.” “How?” “I don’t know. I shall find a way.” A horrible thought passed through the Dutchman’s mind, and he shuddered. “I think you must be mad. I don’t know what has come over you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Now may I go?” “Wait one second longer.” He looked round his studio wearily; he had loved it because her presence had made it gay and homelike; he shut his eyes for an instant; then he gave her a long look as though to impress on his mind the picture of her. He got up and took his hat. “No; I’ll go.” “You?” She was startled. She did not know what he meant. “I can’t bear to think of you living in that horrible, filthy attic. After all, this is your home just as much as mine. You’ll be comfortable here. You’ll be spared at least the worst privations.” He went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out several bank-notes. “I would like to give you half what I’ve got here.” He put them on the table. Neither Strickland nor his wife spoke. Then he recollected something else. “Will you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge? I’ll come and fetch them to-morrow.” He tried to smile. “Good-bye, my dear. I’m grateful for all the happiness you gave me in the past.” He walked out and closed the door behind him. With my mind’s eye I saw Strickland throw his hat on a table, and, sitting down, begin to smoke a cigarette. Chapter XXIX I kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Stroeve had told me. I could not stomach his weakness, and he saw my disapproval. “You know as well as I do how Strickland lived,” he said tremulously. “I couldn’t let her live in those circumstances—I simply couldn’t.” “That’s your business,” I answered. “What would _you_ have done?” he asked. “She went with her eyes open. If she had to put up with certain inconveniences it was her own lookout.” “Yes; but, you see, you don’t love her.” “Do you love her still?” “Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn’t the man to make a woman happy. It can’t last. I want her to know that I shall never fail her.” “Does that mean that you’re prepared to take her back?”