“No, Lovey,” I said decidedly, when we had got to the corner of the Park, “it’s not good enough. I’ve other fish to fry.”
A hectic flush stole into the cheeks, which kept a marvelous youth and freshness. The thin, delicate features, ascetic rather than degraded, sharpened with a frosty look of disappointment.
“Well, just as you think best, sonny,” he said, resignedly. He asked, abruptly, however, “When did ye have yer last meal?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“And when d’ye expect to have yer next?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometime; possibly to-night.”
“Possibly to-night— ’Ow?”
“I tell you I don’t know. Something will happen. If it doesn’t—well, I’ll manage.”
He had found an opening.
“Don’t ye see ye carn’t go on like that? Ye’ve got to live.”