Somerset maughan

concierge
, the only person at hand, ran forward with 
a cry. She knelt down and, looking round with terror, caught sight 
of Margaret. 
'
Oh, mademoiselle, venez vite!
' she cried. 
Margaret was obliged to go. Her heart beat horribly. She looked 
down 
at 
Oliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him. 
Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. He 
opened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his 
face. 
'For the love of God, take me in for one moment,' he sobbed. 'I shall 
die in the street.' 
Her heart was moved towards him. He could not go into the poky 
den, evil-smelling and airless, of the 
concierge
. But with her help 
Margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to 
the studio. He sank painfully into a chair. 
'Shall I fetch you some water?' asked Margaret. 
'Can you get a pastille out of my pocket?' 
He swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached 
to his watch-chain. 

---

'I'm very sorry to cause you this trouble,' he gasped. 'I suffer from a 
disease of the heart, and sometimes I am very near death.' 
'I'm glad that I was able to help you,' she said. 
He seemed able to breathe more easily. She left him to himself for a 
while, so that he might regain his strength. She took up a book and 
began to read. Presently, without moving from his chair, he spoke. 
'You must hate me for intruding on you.' 
His voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. 
She answered with freezing indifference. 
'I couldn't do any less for you than I did. I would have brought a 
dog into my room if it seemed hurt.' 
'I see that you wish me to go.' 
He got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with 
a groan tumbled to his knees. Margaret sprang forward to help him. 
She reproached herself bitterly for those scornful words. The man 
had barely escaped death, and she was merciless. 
'Oh, please stay as long as you like,' she cried. 'I'm sorry, I didn't 
mean to hurt you.' 
He dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she, 
conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. She poured out a 
glass of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not be 
beholden to her even for that. 
'Is there nothing I can do for you at all?' she exclaimed, painfully. 
'Nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair,' he gasped. 
'I hope you'll remain as long as you choose.' 
He did not reply. She sat down again and pretended to read. In a 
little while he began to speak. His voice reached her as if from a 
long way off. 

---

'Will you never forgive me for what I did the other day?' 
She answered without looking at him, her back still turned. 
'Can it matter to you if I forgive or not?' 
'You have not pity. I told you then how sorry I was that a sudden 
uncontrollable pain drove me to do a thing which immediately I 
bitterly regretted. Don't you think it must have been hard for me, 
under the actual circumstances, to confess my fault?' 
'I wish you not to speak of it. I don't want to think of that horrible 
scene.' 
'If you knew how lonely I was and how unhappy, you would have a 
little mercy.' 
His voice was strangely moved. She could not doubt now that he 
was sincere. 
'You think me a charlatan because I aim at things that are unknown 
to you. You won't try to understand. You won't give me any credit 
for striving with all my soul to a very great end.' 
She made no reply, and for a time there was silence. His voice was 
different now and curiously seductive. 
'You look upon me with disgust and scorn. You almost persuaded 
yourself to let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a 
helping hand. And if you hadn't been merciful then, almost against 
your will, I should have died.' 
'It can make no difference to you how I regard you,' she whispered. 
She did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung her 
heartstrings. Her pulse began to beat more quickly. 
'It makes all the difference in the world. It is horrible to think of 
your contempt. I feel your goodness and your purity. I can hardly 
bear my own unworthiness. You turn your eyes away from me as 
though I were unclean.' 

---

She turned her chair a little and looked at him. She was astonished 
at the change in his appearance. His hideous obesity seemed no 
longer repellent, for his eyes wore a new expression; they were 
incredibly tender now, and they were moist with tears. His mouth 
was tortured by a passionate distress. Margaret had never seen so 
much unhappiness on a man's face, and an overwhelming remorse 
seized her. 
'I don't want to be unkind to you,' she said. 
'I will go. That is how I can best repay you for what you have done.' 
The words were so bitter, so humiliated, that the colour rose to her 
cheeks. 
'I ask you to stay. But let us talk of other things.' 
For a moment he kept silence. He seemed no longer to see Margaret, 
and she watched him thoughtfully. His eyes rested on a print of