"Enough? I should think so!" he again couldn't help a bit crudely exhaling.
"Enough for what I wanted. I don't always live like this—not at all. But I came to the best hotel on purpose. I wanted to show you I could. Now," she asked, "do you understand?"
"Understand?" He only gaped.
She threw up her loosed arms, which dropped again beside her. "I did it for you—I did it for you!"
"'For' me—?"
"What I did—what I did here of old."
He stared, trying to see it. "When you made me pay you?"
"The Two Hundred and Seventy—all I could get from you, as you reminded me yesterday, so that I had to give up the rest. It was my idea," she went on—" it was my idea."
"To bleed me quite to death?" Oh, his ice was broken now!
"To make you raise money—since you could, you could. You did, you did—so what better proof?"
His hands fell from what he had touched; he could only stare—her own manner for it was different now too. "I did. I did indeed—!" And the woeful weak simplicity of it, which seemed somehow all that was left him, fell even on his own ear.
"Well then, here it is—it isn't lost!" she returned with a graver face.
"'Here' it is," he gasped, "my poor agonized old money—my blood?"
