"It's about all she gets. And I pay three fifty—and she and I do all the work—and give you two meals and a lunch to take with you—and you've got a room alone—and your mending done. I guess you know when you're well off."
"But I ain't well off," he cried. "I'm a grown-up man—and I've got to have a woman."
Susan had become used to tenement conditions. She said, practically, "Well—there's your left over four dollars a week."
"Huh!" retorted he. "Think I'm goin' to run any risks? I'm no fool. I take care of my health."
"Well—don't bother me with your troubles—at least, troubles of that sort."
"Yes, but I will!" shouted he, in one of those sudden furies that seize upon the stupid ignorant. "You needn't act so nifty with me. I'm as good as you are. I'm willing to marry you."
"No, thanks," said Susan. "I'm not free to marry—even if I would."
"Oh—you ain't?" For an instant his curiosity, as she thus laid a hand upon the curtain over her past, distracted his uncertain attention. But her expression, reserved, cold, maddeningly reminding him of a class distinction of which he was as sensitively conscious as she was unconscious—her expression brought him back with a jerk. "Then you'll have to live with me, anyhow. I can't stand it, and I'm not goin' to.
If you want me to stay on here, and help out, you've got to treat me right. Other fellows that do as I'm doing get treated right. And I've got to be, too—or I'll clear out." And he squirmed, and waggled his head and slapped and rubbed his heavy, powerful legs.
"Why, Ashbel," said Susan, patting him on the shoulder. "You and I are like brother and sister. You might as well talk this way to Etta."