oft
'ead. Not your sort. And, you're not 'is sort. 'E's frightened of
you. 'E want someone who pat 'is 'ead and let 'im cry on 'is shoulder.
You can't 'elp 'im--and you fuss over 'im--you come 'ere and try to put
'is 'eart _affaires_ in order and it's no use at all. _C'est ridicule,
enfin_."

He looked away from her, so that she should not see that this time she
had struck home. She had knocked the weapon out of his hand, and for
the moment, in his astonishment and pain, he could not even hate her.
It was true. He couldn't help Cosgrave any more. His strength and
ability were, as she said, of no use. That was what Cosgrave had meant
when he had laughed about the adenoids. He had failed Cosgrave from
the moment that Cosgrave had demanded love for himself and human
tenderness. He had no tenderness to give. He was a hard young man.
He said slowly, and with a curious humility:

"I used to back him up when he was a kid. He trusted me too--and it's
got to be a sort of habit. I want him to be happy."

"Because you are so un'appy yourself?"

"I'm all right," he said stubbornly. And then he added, still not
looking at her. "Please give him up--so--so that he won't break his
heart over it. I'm not a rich man either, but I'll make it worth your
while."

She sprang up with a gesture of amused exasperation.

"'Ow _stupide_ you are, my clever friend. You are like ze old father
in ze _Dame aux Camellias_. You make me quite cross. This Rufus--I
can't give 'im up. 'E don't belong to me. I never ask for 'im. 'E
come into my dressing-room and I like 'im for 'is cheek and I give 'im
a good time. Now he is _ennuyeux_. 'E want to marry me and make an
honest woman of me." She patted Stonehouse on the shoulder with so
droll a grimace that he bit his lip to avoid a gust of ribald,
incredible laughter. It was as though by some trick she changed the
whole aspect of things so that they became simply comic--scenes in a
jolly, improper French farce. "And now I 'ope you see 'ow funny that
is. And please take Monsieur Cosgrave away and keep 'im away. I don't
ask no better."

His anger revived against her. And it was a thing apart from Cosgrave
altogether--a bitter personal anger.

"It can't be done like that. You can't take drugs away from a
drug-fiend at one swoop. Let him down gently--treat him as a friend
until he has to go--get him to see reason."

"No," she said. "You don't understand. You 'ave not '