"But I don't care," cried Etta, moved to an outburst of frankness by her sense of security in Susan's loyalty and generosity. "He doesn't understand. Men are fools about women. He thinks he likes in me what I haven't got at all. As a matter of fact if I had been what he made me tell him I was, why we'd never have met—or got acquainted in the way that makes us so fond of each other. And I owe it all to you, Lorna. I don't care what he says, Lorna—or does. I want you."
"Can't go," said Susan, not conscious—yet not unaware, either—of the curious mixture of heart and art in Etta's outburst of apparent eagerness to risk everything for love of her. "Can't possibly go. I've made other plans. The thing for you is to be straight—get some kind of a job in Detroit—make Fatty marry you—quick!"
"He would, but his father'd throw him out."
"Not if you were an honest working girl."
"But——" Etta was silent and reflective for a moment. "Men are so queer," she finally said. "If I'd been an honest working girl he'd never have noticed me. It's because I am what I am that I've been able to get acquainted with him and fascinate him. And he feels it's a sporty thing to do—to marry a fast girl. If I was to settle down to work, be a regular working girl—why, I'm afraid he—he'd stop loving me. Then, too, he likes to believe he's rescuing me from a life of shame. I've watched him close. I understand him."
"No doubt," said Susan drily.
"Oh, I know you think I'm deceitful. But a woman's got to be, with a man. And I care a lot about him—aside from the fact that he can make me comfortable and—and protect me from—from the streets. If you cared for a man— No, I guess you wouldn't. You oughtn't to be so—so honest, Lorna. It'll always do you up."
Susan laughed, shrugged her shoulders. "I am what I am," said she. "I can't be any different. If I tried, I'd only fail worse."
"You don't love John—do you?"
"I like him."