"Well then, let me be that. Let me help you. I'm sure I care for you more than she does. And if you'll do things for her, why can't you do them for me?"
"I will. I"
"Then give her up. Let her go. If she has no more than friendship for you, let me give you that. What is there" He felt her trembling against his arm. "What do you—want her to be? Ask me—I'll" Her voice gave out in a whisper, ashamed.
"Oh, please" Her kindness, her affectionate kindness, almost brought tears to his eyes. "I'm always— I make everyone miserable. I disappoint everyone."
"No, you—you wouldn't now. Not after that." She spoke as if through blood in her throat. "You wouldn't make me ashamed. You're too"
They stood at the foot of her steps, the rain beating on the umbrella. He could see her face only as a white dimness. "T-take the umbrella," she said, her teeth chattering. "I'm so cold. The rain's so cold. I Don't" Her hand found his in the darkness, and he felt it shaking. . . . Good" . . . She turned with a little hysteric catch of breath that was half a sob, and she stumbled heavily upon the steps, bent forward as if the climb were a mile high.
He could not see her in the shadow of the doorway. He thought he heard her voice. Then the door shut with a sharp, nervous suddenness.
He began to walk home, wet and shivering, through the drenched streets. What was it, in him, that disappointed everybody? Why didn't they let him live
