“A beggar at the gates,” she murmured.
I got up and stood looking down at her.
“Don't pity me!” I said. “My remark was a figure of speech. I want no alms. I wouldn't take even you as alms. They'll probably get me down, and stamp the life out of me—nearly. But not quite—don't you lose sight of that. They can't kill me, and they can't tame me. I'll recover, and I'll strew the Street with their blood and broken bones.”
She drew in her breath sharply.
“And a minute ago I was almost liking you!” she exclaimed.
I retreated to my chair and gave her a smile that must have been grim.
“Your ideas of life and of men are like a cloistered nun's,” said I. “If there are any real men among your acquaintances, you may find out some day that they're not so much like lapdogs as they pretend—and that you wouldn't like them, if they were.”
“What—just what—happened to you down town to-day—after you left me?”
“A friend of mine has been luring me into a trap—why, I can't quite fathom. To-day he sprang the trap and ran away.”
“A friend of yours?”