"You're not much of a pal, are you?"
She scoffed at him, looked him up and down, at his well-fitting clothes, his general air of prosperity.
"Pal!" she jeered. "Look at you—Merton Ware, the great dramatist, and me—a shabby, ugly, bad-tempered, indifferent typewriter. Bad-tempered," she repeated. "Yes, I am that. I didn't start out to be. I just haven't had any luck."
"It will all come some day," he assured her cheerfully.
"I think if you'd stayed different," she went on thoughtfully, "if you hadn't slipped away into the clouds … shows what a selfish little beast I am! Can't imagine why you bother about me."
"Shall I tell you why, really?" he asked. "Because you saved me—I don't know what from. The night we went out I was suffering from a loneliness which was the worst torture I have ever felt. It was there in my throat and dragging down my heart, and I just felt as though any way of ending it all would be a joy. All these millions of hard-faced people, intent on their own prosperity or their own petty troubles, goaded me, I think, into a sort of silent fury. Just that one night I craved like a madman for a single human being to talk to—well, I shall never forget it, Martha—"
"Miss Grimes!" she interrupted under her breath.
He laughed.
"That doesn't really matter, does it?" he asked. "You've never been afraid that I should want to make love to you, have you?"
She glanced round into the mirror by their side, looked at her wan face, the shabby little hat, the none too tidily arranged hair which drooped over her ears; down at her shapeless jacket, her patched skirt, the shoes which were in open rebellion. Then she laughed, curiously enough without any note of bitterness.