"I beg your pardon," said he humbly.
She straightway relented, saying: "Of course I'd not let one of the boys come up when I was dressed like this. But I didn't mind you." He winced at this amiable, unconscious reminder of her always exasperating and tantalizing and humiliating indifference to him—"And as I'm going to a grand dance to-night I simply had to wash my hair. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Primmey?"
He hid the torment of his reopened wound and seated himself at the center table. She returned to a chair in the window where the full force of the afternoon sun would concentrate upon her hair. And he gazed spell bound. He had always known that her hair was fine. He had never dreamed it was like this. It was thick, it was fine and soft. In color, as the sunbeams streamed upon it, it was all the shades of gold and all the other beautiful shades between brown and red. It fell about her face, about her neck, about her shoulders in a gorgeous veil. And her pure white skin—It was an even more wonderful white below the line of her collar—where he had never seen it before. Such exquisitely modeled ears—such a delicate nose—and the curve of her cheeks—and the glory of her eyes! He clinched his teeth and his hands, sat dumb with his gaze down.
"How do you like my room?" she chattered on. "It's not so bad—really quite comfortable—though I'm afraid I'll be cold when the weather changes. But it's the best I can do. As it is, I don't see how I'm going to make ends meet. I pay twelve of my fifteen for this room and two meals. The rest goes for lunch and car fare. As soon as I have to get clothes—" She broke off, laughing.
"Well," he said, "what then?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied she carelessly. "Perhaps old Mr. Branscombe'll give me a raise. Still, eighteen or twenty is the most I could hope for—and that wouldn't mean enough for clothes."
She shook her head vigorously and her hair stood out yet more vividly and the sunbeams seemed to go mad with joy as they danced over and under and through it. He had ventured to glance up; again he hastily looked down.
"You spoiled me," she went on. "Those few months over there in Jersey City. It made such a change in me, though I didn't realize it at the time. You see, I hadn't known since I was a tiny little girl what it was to live really decently, and so I was able to get along quite contentedly. I didn't know any better." She made a wry face. "How I loathe the canned and cold storage stuff I have to eat nowadays. And how I do miss the beautiful room I had in that big house over there! and how I miss Molly and Pat—and the garden—and doing as I pleased—and the clothes I had: I thought I was being careful and not spoiling myself. You may not believe it, but I was really conscientious about spending money." She laughed in a queer, absent way. "I had such a funny idea of what I had a right to do and what I hadn't. And I didn't spend so very much on out-and-out luxury. But—enough to spoil me for this life."
As Norman listened, as he noted—in her appearance, manner, way of talking—the many meaning signs of the girl hesitating at the fork of the roads—he felt within him the twinges of fear, of jealousy—and through fear and jealousy, the twinges of conscience. She was telling the truth. He had undermined her ability to live in purity the life to which her earning power assigned her. . . . Why had she been so friendly to him? Why had she received him in this informal, almost if not quite inviting fashion?
"So you think I've changed?" she was saying. "Well—I have. Gracious, what a little fool I was!"