"I—I" And again Etta could get no further.
"The room'd be a dollar," pleaded the man. "That'd make it three."
"I—I—can't," burst out Etta, hysterical. "Oh, please let me alone. I—I'm a good girl, but I do need money. But I—I can't. Oh, for God's sake—I'm so cold—so cold!"
The man was much embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said feelingly. "That's right—keep your virtue. Go home to your parents." He was at ease now; his voice was greasy and his words sleek with the unction of an elder. "I thought you were a soiled dove. I'm glad you spoke out—glad for my sake as well as your own. I've got a daughter about your age. Go home, my dear, and stay a good girl. I know it's hard sometimes; but never give up your purity—never!" And he lifted his square-topped hard hat and turned away.
Suddenly Etta felt again the fury of the winter night and icy wind. As that wind flapped her thin skirt and tortured her flesh, she cried, "Wait—please. I was just—just fooling."
The man had halted, but he was looking at her uncertainly. Etta put her hand on his arm and smiled pertly up at him—smiled as she had seen other street girls smile in the days when she despised them. "I'll go—if you'll give me three."
"I—I don't think I care to go now. You sort of put me out of the humor."
"Well—two, then." She gave a reckless laugh. "God, how cold it is! Anybody'd go to hell to get warm a night like this."
"You are a very pretty girl," said the man. He was warmly dressed; his was not the thin blood of poverty. He could not have appreciated what she was feeling. "You're sure you want to go? You're sure it's your—your business?"
"Yes. I'm strange in this part of town. Do you know a place?"