"A penny for your thoughts," she said gayly, yet with a kind of
wistfulness.

"You would be thrown away at the price."

These were things that she longed yet dreaded to hear. She was not free
(at least she dreaded so) to listen to such words.

"I am sorry for that girl, God knows!" he added.

"She lived to be always sorry for herself. She was selfish. She could
have thrived on happiness. She did not need suffering. She has been
merry, gay, but never happy."

"The sequel was sad?"

"Terribly sad."

"Will you tell me--the scene?"

"I will, but not to-night." She drew her hands across her eyes and
forehead. "You are not asking merely as the artist now?" She knew the
answer, but she wanted to hear it.

"A man who is an artist asks, and he wishes to be a friend to that woman,
to do her any service possible."

"Who can tell when she might need befriending?"

He would not question further. She had said all she could until she knew