"I simply find I don't need you. I'm sorry, but there it is."
"Is it—because I didn't get a new dress when you spoke to us? I couldn't afford to," she said simply.
De Freyne fidgeted with some papers on his desk.
"Oh, that's all finished and done with," he answered without looking at her.
"But I'd like to know where I've failed, please, Mr. De Freyne. It's very important that I should know. I shall have to find another engagement."
De Freyne gave her a searching look.
"You may get on all right elsewhere," he said. "I'll tell you the truth for once in a way. You're not the right type. Don't you see you're not the sort of material I've got to provide? Hang it all, it's my living. Do you think I surround myself with the belles of Houndsditch and the Lord knows where because I like it? The only kind of girl I've any use for is the one who, besides working in business hours, makes a show in smart places the rest of her time. Miss Mortimer was a good instance of what I mean until she got swelled head. You're a lady and you won't do. Forget you are one and you can stop on or come back again. I mean that."
She knew what he meant, and since she had no intention of modeling herself on Miss Mortimer she also did not attempt to argue the matter. De Freyne, for some unaccountable reason, tried to justify himself.
"I daresay you think me a sort of understudy to Apollyon, but if you'll look at things impartially I'm not as bad as all that. The girls I engage come to me knowing I can find them the best market. I give them far better chances than they can get anywhere else. You and your friend are—accidents. You have either got to clear or—conform. In the case of your friend, don't you think it's rather a shame to persuade her to buck up against things? She's not like you. It's not doing her a good turn. I've given her a chance to-day...."
He let the words sink in.