They had walked down Fourth Avenue and over into Madison Square Park, where they had wandered for hours that windy Autumn night. She had spoken quite freely about her own people, about her mother in Philadelphia, about this sister, the only member of the family with whom she had kept in touch. She was married to a shipping clerk, and there were three small children, the youngest of whom was Petey. And they were very poor.
“You must let me help you!” said Nick. “There’s no reason—no sense in your living this way.”
“No,” she said, very resolutely. “I wouldn’t! Not for anything! I dare say you didn’t believe me when I told you—that time—that for myself I wouldn’t have thought of—borrowing. But it was true. I’d rather be as poor as poor, and be independent. And have my self-respect.”
“But you don’t want to go on like this? Being a—waitress, and living like this. You don’t want to lose all that you’ve gained—to slip out of the class where you belong....”
“I don’t belong to any class,” she answered. “That’s the whole trouble. I don’t belong anywhere. I wish I’d been let alone. I wish I’d stayed like Katie.”
“But you——” he began, and ended by murmuring something about “education” and “advantages.”
“What good does it do?” she asked. “I’m not happy and I’m not useful. And in my heart I don’t want anything better—or even anything different—to what Katie wants.”
“And what is that?” he asked.
“Oh,—a nice home and not too much worry—and a family, I suppose,” she answered.
“Then you expect to go like this, indefinitely, although you admit you’re neither happy nor useful?”