"'Tis that that's made you cranky, all the same," he declared. "You was accustomed to your tipple and you miss it. However, I'm the last to say you did wrong in signing. When your organs get used to going without, you'll find yourself better company again. And don't worry about the table I keep. I live low from choice, not need. It suits me to starve a bit. I'm the better and cheerfuller for it."
But then she took up the analysis and explained to him whence his good health and spirits had sprung.
"Ban't that at all. 'Tis what you be doing have got into your blood. I know—I know. You've hid it from all of 'em, but you haven't hid it from me. I don't clean up all the rubbish you make and sift your waste-paper basket for nought. I itch to let it out! But God forgive me, I've let out enough in my time."
He turned on her angrily; then fearlessly she met his frown and he subsided.
"You're a dangerous, prying woman," he said, "and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm all that," she admitted; "and shame isn't the word. I'm ashamed enough, and more than ashamed."
"If you let out a breath of my little games, I'll pack you off into the street that very day, Susan."
She sat down by the fire and took her knitting off the peat box where it was usually to be found.
"You needn't fear me," she answered. "I've had my lesson. If ever I tell again what I should not, you may kick me into the gutter."
He mused over the thoughts that she had awakened.