"Stop right there," said George. "Don't go on like that, or I can't follow." And he pulled his beard again.
"Oh, George, how sweet of you! how dear of you!" And she clasped his moist left hand, which he left limply in hers.
"The bother of it is, I don't know how I shall get it," said George. "I'm just thinking that"——
"Oh, don't tell me—please don't tell me!" said Nancy. "I—I'd rather not know! I know you won't steal, or murder anyone, but get it, George! Oh, thank you! thank you so much! Good-bye!"
And Nancy, as she looked out of the window after him, at his cheap hat and his sloping shoulders, and saw him board a cable-car going down-town, felt that she was a vulture and a harpy.
"The Girl in the Letters has demoralized me," she said.
He brought her four hundred dollars on the following Monday, and she wept some pretty little tears over it, and covered her ears with her hands, and dimpled up at him, when he began to tell her how he had got them. She was the Girl in the Letters. She was practising. And with George it answered very well—too well! She had to stop quickly and be herself again. Then he went away.
And she went out and bought dresses. She bought drooping, trailing gowns and flimsy fly-away gowns, and an unbusiness-like hat, and shoes impossible to walk in. She bought Crème des Crèmes for her face, and Crème Simon for her hands, and liquid varnish for her nails, and violet unguent for her hair.
Then she waited for the Unknown's next letter, saying