This question was accompanied by the offer of a little packet of acid drops, half of which he had already devoured. She took a couple with the remark that she liked chocolate creams best.
“You shall have some,” he said, “to-morrow. I shall walk with you; I myself am on my way to my small apartment. It is the—a—fashion for a gentleman to offer a lady one of his arms. Honour me.”
He held out his arm, which she declined.
“I am not a lady,” she said demurely; “I am only a poor servant girl.”
“And I,” he responded insinuatingly, “am a poor gentleman. Ah! If I were—a—rich, I should say to you, accept this ring.” He made a motion as if offering her a ring. “Accept this—a—bracelet,” with corresponding action. “Or this dress. But I have not—a—money.” He took another acid drop. “It is a misfortune. But what can a poor devil do? You do not—a—despise me because I am thus?”
“Oh, no. I hope you will be rich one day.”
“It will happen,” he said, in a quick, eager tone. “From my country”—he waved his hands vaguely—“shall come what I wait for here. Then shall I say to you, ‘Becky’—pardon; I have heard the amiable Mrs. Preedy thus call you—‘Becky,’ shall I say, ‘be no longer a servant. Be a lady.’ How then, will you speak?”
“I must not listen to you,” replied Becky, coquettishly; “you foreign gentlemen have such smooth tongues that they are enough to turn a poor girl’s head.” They were now in Great Porter Square. “What a number of people there are in the square,” she said.
“It is—a—remarkable, this murder. The man is—a—found.”