When he came to make confession to me, it was a little difficult to follow which particular lady he was talking about. He never mentioned them by name, and seemed to try to give the impression that they were one composite person.
One evening I got him with his back to the wall. “Bantam, who is this Oxford girl—the first one you got to know about?”
Then he admitted that she was a shop-girl. I knew what that meant: some of the Oxford tradesmen engaged girls for the prettiness of their faces, that they might attract custom by flirting with the undergrads. Little by little I narrowed him down in his general statements till I had guessed the shop in which she worked.
“Is she a good girl?” I asked.
Instead of taking offense, he answered, “Dante, the thought of her goodness often makes me ashamed of myself.”
It was evident, though he would not admit it, that this affair at least was serious.
“Then why does she stay there?”
“She can’t help herself.”
“Why can’t she help herself?”
“She’s an orphan and has a living to earn. She’s afraid to get out of a situation.”