"He's well,--I guess."
"He knows, does he?"
"I--don't know."
"What! Why--can't you tell him? He could get down here, couldn't he? He had a crutch when I was there."
She was silent, her head drooped, the flowers in her hat brushed the bars at Archie's face. She thrust the toe of a patent-leather boot between the bars at the bottom of the door. The tips of her gloved fingers touched the bars lightly; there was a slight odor of perfume in the entry-way.
"You see," she said, "I--I can't go out there--any more." Her tears were falling on the cement floor, falling beside the iron bucket in which was kept the water for the prisoners to drink.
"Oh!" said Archie coldly.
She looked up suddenly, read the meaning of his changed expression, and then she pressed her face against the bars tightly, and cried out:
"Oh, Archie! Don't! Don't!"
He was hard with her.