"Don't say that, Daisy; I hate to hear you say that word."
"It's the right word, Paul, horrid or not. However, I shall get out of it some day, I suppose."
"How?" asked Paul, withdrawing his arm from her waist, and looking fixedly at her.
"How should I know?" said the girl, with the same hard laugh. "Feet foremost, perhaps, in my coffin. Somehow, at all events."
"You're in a curious mood to-day, Daisy."
"Am I? You'll see me in many curious moods, if we continue to know each other long, Paul--which I very much doubt, by the way."
"Daisy, what makes you say that? You've not seen anyone--you've not heard--I mean, you don't intend to break with me, Daisy?"
"There is nothing to break, my poor Paul!"
"Whose fault is that? Whose fault is it that you remain in what you call your garret? Whose fault is it that you are compelled to obey Madame Clarisse, and to dance attendance on her infernal customers? Not mine, you must allow that. You know what is the dearest wish of my heart--you know how often I have proposed that----"
"Stop, sir," said Daisy, laying her ungloved hand upon his mouth; "you know how often I have forbidden you to touch upon that subject, and now you dare to disobey merely because I was foolish enough to be off my guard for a moment, and to let some grumbling escape my lips. No, no, Paul, let us be sensible; it is very well as it is. We enjoy these stolen meetings; at least, I do----"