“Can we sit down somewhere?” she said. “I want to talk to you.”
There were one or two chairs placed behind a red drugget curtain, where adventurous spirits led their partners later in the evening. They found a place there, and the young man recovered his power of speech.
“Not glad to see you!” he exclaimed almost vehemently. “Why, what else do you suppose I come here for every Thursday evening? I never dance; they all make game of me because they know I come here on the chance of seeing you again. I’m a fool! I know that! You just amuse yourself here with me, and then you go away, back to your friends—and forget! And I hang about round here, like the silly ass that I am!”
“My dear—George!”
The young man blushed at the sound of his Christian name. He was mollified despite himself.
“I suppose it’s got to be the same thing all over again,” he declared resignedly. “You’ll talk to me and let me be near you—and make a fool of me all round; and then you’ll go away, and heaven knows when I’ll see you again. You won’t let me take you home, and won’t tell me where you live, or who your friends are. You do treat me precious badly, Miss Violet.”
“This time,” she said quietly, “it will not be the same. I have something quite serious to say to you.”
“Something serious—you? Go on!” he exclaimed in excitement.
“Have you found another place yet?”
“No. I haven’t really tried. I have a little money saved, and I could get one tomorrow if—”