"Oh, it's my blood too, you must know now!" She held up her head as not before—as for her right to speak of the thing to-day most precious to her. "I took it, but this—my being here this way—is what I've made of it! That was the idea I had!"
Her "ideas," as things to boast of, staggered him. "To have everything in the world, like this, at my wretched expense?"
She had folded her arms back again—grasping each elbow she sat firm; she knew he could see, and had known well from the first, what she had wanted to say, difficult, monstrous though it might be. "No more than at my own—but to do something with your money that you'd never do yourself."
"Myself, myself?" he wonderingly wailed. "Do you know—or don't you?—what my life has been?"
She waited, and for an instant, though the light in the room had failed a little more and would soon be mainly that of the flaring lamps on the windy Parade, he caught from her dark eye a silver gleam of impatience. "You've suffered and you've worked—which, God knows, is what I've done! Of course you've suffered," she said—"you inevitably had to! We have to," she went on, "to do or to be or to get anything."
"And pray what have I done or been or got?" Herbert Dodd found it almost desolately natural to demand.
It made her cover him again as with all she was thinking of. "Can you imagine nothing, or can't
