“Why don’t you dine with me?” Michael suggested.
She looked at him doubtfully.
“Can you afford it?”
“I think I could manage it.”
“Because if we are in the same house that doesn’t say you’ve got to pay my board, does it?” she demanded proudly.
“Once in a way won’t matter,” Michael insisted. “And we might go on to a music hall afterward.”
“Yes, we might, if I hadn’t got to pay the woman who’s looking after my kid for some clothes she’s made for him,” said Poppy. “And sitting with you at the Holborn all night won’t do that. No, you can give me dinner and then I’ll P.O. I’m not going to put on a frock even for you, because I never get off only when I’m in a coat and skirt.”
Michael rose to leave the room while Poppy got ready.
“Go on, sit down. As you’re going to take me out to dinner, you can talk to me while I dress as a reward.”
In this faded pink room where the sun was by now shining with a splendor that made all the strewn clothes seem even more fusty and overblown, Michael could not have borne to see a live thing take shape as it were from such corruption. He made an excuse therefore of letters to be written and left Poppy to herself, asking to be called when she was ready.