Little by
little I induced her to speak of herself--this, after she'd come
two or three times--and she told me lamentable things. She was
absolutely alone in London, and hadn't had sufficient food for
weeks; had sold all she could of her clothing; and so on. Her
home was in Birmingham; she had been driven away by the brutality
of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few pounds, and she came to
London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of
thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl, let
alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she
began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her,
that she wouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could
restrain myself no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I
didn't practise any deception, mind. I told her I was a poor
devil who had failed as a realistic novelist and was earning
bread in haphazard ways; and I explained frankly that I thought
we might carry on various kinds of business together: she might
go on with her novel-writing, and--so on. But she was frightened;
I had been too abrupt.
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