As he approached his shop, he saw a girl standing beneath the lamp-post at the corner. She was a girl about fifteen years of age, with bright eyes showing beneath the thick black fringe which covered her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed by the cold wind, which, however, she did not seem to mind as she stood there. A large white apron covered her dark gown; she wore a violet woollen shawl crossed over her chest, and a hat with many feathers was on her head. She turned and looked curiously at Michael as he passed her, eyeing him so intently that he was conscious of her scrutiny, and resented it. As he was opening the door of his shop, she came to the head of the steps and called out in loud, clear tones:
"I say, are you Michael Betts?"
"That is my name, certainly," replied Michael, with dignity, "but I cannot see what business that is of yours."
"Maybe not. And yet, p'raps it is my business. Maybe I know more of you than you think for, Michael Betts."
"Then you know I'm a respectable man, and have nothing to say to a girl like you," returned Michael angrily.
"Respectable, indeed!" cried the girl hotly. "I don't know about your being so mighty respectable, but I'd have you know, other folks can be respectable besides yourself. You might practise a little civility along with your respectability."
Michael closed his door sharply, cutting short this tirade. The girl made an angry, defiant gesture in his direction, and then ran off.
"The hussy!" said Michael to himself. "How did she get my name so pat, I wonder? I hope none of the neighbours heard her calling it out. Anyhow, they all know me for a respectable man."
Suddenly with the thought his face flushed, and a pang of shame smote him. Was he indeed a respectable man? Would they respect him if they knew how he had kept the notes? Could he say that in that instance he had acted perfectly on the square? Alas! His conscience convicted him. He was no longer satisfied of his own probity. He had given his self-respect in exchange for those fifty pounds.