“You look it,” said he, frankly.
Tears sprang into the girl’s eyes, as she said, “My God, man, if you had gone through what I have, you would look old, too.”
“Now come, I did not mean that to hurt, but I am blunt and to the point; if I have hurt you, forgive me,” said the man.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said the girl, “only, you see, I guess I am wrong someway tonight. I don’t like to swear, and feel too mean to cry.”
“You seem worried or sad.”
“No, I am—am—nothing,” said the girl, dreamily.
“Oh, I guess you are a great deal,” said he, as he passed his hand down the woman’s bare arm, with a soft caress, from her shoulder to the hand that hung listlessly at her side. In spite of the man’s maudlin condition, his touch was soft and gentle; the stroke seemed to soothe the mind of the girl; tears sprang into her eyes as the man took her hand and patted it in a kindly manner; hope seemed to take root in her breast and the man, throwing off all assumption of intoxication, looked her squarely in the eyes and said: “Come, now, I know you have a story. The thrill which your soft hand sends through me tells me that you have known better things, that you have graced a throne more becoming to womanly instincts, with which your nature is so bountifully supplied.”
“Don’t, oh please don’t talk like that,” cried the girl, “it—it—makes me so sad.”
“Have you ever told your story,” asked the man, paying no attention to the now sobbing girl.