“It’s quite likely,” assented Sister Soulsby.  “I quite believe it.”

“Then how can anybody say that I’ve degenerated, that I’ve become a fool?” he demanded.

“I haven’t heard anybody hint at such a thing,” she answered quietly.

“No, of course, you haven’t heard them!” he cried.  “I heard them, though!” Then, forcing himself to a sitting posture, against the restraint of her hand, he flung back the covering.  “I’m burning hot already!  Yes, those were the identical words:  I haven’t improved; I’ve degenerated.  People hate me; they won’t have me in their houses.  They say I’m a nuisance and a bore.  I’m like a little nasty boy.  That’s what they say.  Even a young man who was dying—­lying right on the edge of his open grave—­told me solemnly that I reminded him of a saint once, but I was only fit for a barkeeper now.  They say I really don’t know anything at all.  And I’m not only a fool, they say, I’m a dishonest fool into the bargain!”

“But who says such twaddle as that?” she returned consolingly.  The violence of his emotion disturbed her.  “You mustn’t imagine such things.  You are among friends here.  Other people are your friends, too.  They have the very highest opinion of you.”

“I haven’t a friend on earth but you!” he declared solemnly.  His eyes glowed fiercely, and his voice sank into a grave intensity of tone.  “I was going to kill myself.  I went on to the big bridge to throw myself off, and a policeman saw me trying to climb over the railing, and he grabbed me and marched me away.  Then he threw me out at the entrance, and said he would club my head off if I came there again.  And then I went and stood and let the cable-cars pass close by me, and twenty times I thought I had the nerve to throw myself under the next one, and then I waited for the next—­and I was afraid!  And then I was in a crowd somewhere, and the warning came to me that I was going to die.  The fool needn’t go kill himself:  God would take care of that.  It was my heart, you know.  I’ve had that terrible fluttering once before.  It seized me this time, and I fell down in the crowd, and some people walked over me, but some one else helped me up, and let me sit down in a big lighted hallway, the entrance to some theatre, and some one brought me some brandy, but somebody else said I was drunk, and they took it away again, and put me out.  They could see I was a fool, that I hadn’t a friend on earth.  And when I went out, there was a big picture of a woman in tights, and the word ‘Amazons’ overhead—­and then I remembered you.  I knew you were my friend—­the only one I have on earth.”

“It is very flattering—­to be remembered like that,” said Sister Soulsby, gently.  The disposition to laugh was smothered by a pained perception of the suffering he was undergoing.  His face had grown drawn and haggard under the burden of his memories as he rambled on.

“So I came straight to you,” he began again.  “I had just money enough left to pay my fare.  The rest is in my valise at the hotel—­the Murray Hill Hotel.  It belongs to the church.  I stole it from the church.  When I am dead they can get it back again!”