“No, I don't think I am--at least not so far as you are concerned. I was mistaken. I was in love with some one else--with you.”
“Yes, with you. I was in love with you when we went to Reading, and never got over it. I thought I had, but when love is real we never get over it. I always loved you, and those four days I spent nursing you have brought it all out. I shall never love any one else. I know you don't care for me; you said once you couldn't care for me.”
“I! I am too miserable to care for any one. I wish you had let me die; but that is ungrateful. You must excuse me, I am so miserable. Why speak of loving me? I can love no one. I don't care what becomes of me. I am ruined; nothing matters now.”
“I wish you would confide in me; you can trust me. Has he forsaken you? Can you not make it up?”
“No, never now; I shall never see him again.”
“Has anything happened lately, since you came to Brighton?”
Lizzie nodded, and Frank folded the shawl about her, and wiped her tears away with his pocket handkerchief. “Since you were ill?”
“No, before I was ill; he was down here watching me. He found out I had gone to your studio, and he said the most dreadful things--that he would break your head, and that I had never been true to him, and that I was not fit to be the wife of an honest man.”
“But I will tell him that you came to my studio to sit for your portrait.”
“No, you mustn't write; it would only make matters worse. No use; he says he will never see me again.”
“Where can I see him? Has he gone back to London? I will follow him and tell him he is mistaken.”
“No, please don't, and please don't go to the 'Gaiety'; he is a violent- tempered man; something dreadful might occur. Please, promise me.”
“Not go to the 'Gaiety'? He doesn't know me.”
“Have I seen him? Do tell me; you know you can trust me. I am your friend. Tell me--”
“You have seen him in the 'Gaiety,' in the grill-room--the waiter, number two, the good-looking tall man.”
“He wasn't always a waiter; his people are very superior. He has been unfortunate.”
“And it was he you loved this long while?”
“I must write and tell him he is committing an act of injustice. I will make this matter right for you, Lizzie.”
He rang for the landlady, and asked for writing materials. She apologised for the penny bottle of ink, and spoke of getting a table from the next room, but he said he could write very well on the chimney-piece. “I suppose I had better begin, 'Sir'?”