“He looked a bit down in the mouth, didn’t he?”
“He was. He’s such a man to feel other people’s troubles.”
“Whose? Not yours, I should hope?”
She laughed.
“Good powers, no! I’m not one to tell my troubles—you know that, or ought to. I’m a proud woman, whatever you may be. It isn’t personal things, but general questions that bother him. Poverty and want and injustice, and all that. I cheered him up, and tried to make him forget.”
“He’ll do better to leave such subjects alone,” said Dingle. “The woes of the world in general ain’t his job; and if he tries to make them his job, he may find it won’t pay him to do so.”
“That’s your pettifogging opinion; but if every man in good employment was as selfish as you, the poor might remain poor for ever,” she answered.
“Well, don’t you be a fool, anyway, there’s a dear. You’ve got to look after me, not the poor in general. And nobody can look after me better than you, when you please. It’s a choice between beer and tea this minute, so choose which I’m to have.”
“Tea,” she said. “If you can be patient for a little.”
They went in together, and he was pleased to find Medora amiable and willing, though ignorant that her good temper sprang not from his inspiration.