if to ward him off, but dropped both arms before her and stood, swaying them ever so slightly.
"So this … So this …" He choked upon the words.
She nodded, hardening her eyes to meet his. "He left me. He sent no money"
"I see."
"I was afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid to do it … suddenly … to put an end.… It's not so easy to starve, really. Oh, Willy, can't you hit me?"
He seemed to be reflecting. "I—I say," he said abruptly, "can't we talk? Can't we get away somewhere and talk?"
Her limp arms seemed to answer: they asked, as plainly as words, "What is there to say?"
"I don't know.… Somewhere out of this infernal light. I want to think. There must be somewhere, away from this light …" He broke off. "At home, now, I can think. I am always thinking at home."
"At home …" the woman echoed.
"And you must think too?"
"Always: everywhere."
"Ah!" he ran on, as one talking against time: "but what do you suppose I think about, nine times out of ten? Why"—and he uttered it with an air of foolish triumph—"of the chances that
