"What did you say?" He stared at her absently.

"What would you like for breakfast?"

He looked towards his coat that hung on the foot of his bed.

"Don't bother about me; I'm going to get up."

"No, you must not." She caught his wrist. "Look how you are
quivering; you ought not to have tried to read."

He raised the paper again, but it shook so that its rustling might have
been heard across the room. She took it from him, and laid it on a
chair by the bed. She looked away; the corners of his mouth were drawn
down piteously and his lips were twitching.

"Please hand me my coat," he said.

"You are not going to get up?" She sat down on the bed and put her
hand on his brow. Her face was soft and pleading. It held a
sweetness, a womanly strength he longed to lean upon.

He caught her hand and held it nervously.

"I don't believe I've got a single friend on earth," he said. "I don't
deserve any; I'm a bad man."

"Don't talk that way," she replied. There was something in his
plaintive tone that seemed to touch her deeply, for she took his hand