"A little more," said Simmons, mildly; "I sha n't trouble you again. What do you mean to do?"
"Nothing."
"O, come!"
"Nothing, nothing, nothing!"
"Nothing but starve. How about your money?"
"Why do you ask? You don't care."
"My dear fellow, if you want to make me offer you twenty pounds, you set most clumsily about it. You said just now I don't know you. Possibly! There is, perhaps, no such enormous difference between knowing you and not knowing you. At any rate, you don't know me. I expect you to go home."
"I won't go home! I have crossed the ocean for the last time."
"What is the matter? Are you afraid?"
"Yes, I'm afraid! 'I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word!'"
"You're more afraid to go than to stay?"
"I sha n't stay. I shall die."
"O, are you sure of that?"
"One can always be sure of that."
Mr. Simmons started and stared: his mild cynic had turned grim stoic. "Upon my soul," he said, "one would think that Death had named the day!"
"We have named it, between us."
