"Take me to see it," said Antony Dart, "I want to see the girl."
The words spoke themselves. Why should he care to see either cockloft or girl? He did not. He wanted to go back to his lodgings with that which he had come out to buy. Yet he said this thing. His companion looked up at him with an expression actually relieved.
"Would yer tike up with 'er?" with eager sharpness, as if confronting a simple business proposition. "She's pretty an' clean, an' she won't drink a drop o' nothin'. If she was treated kind she'd be cheerfler. She's got a round fice an' light 'air an' eyes. 'Er 'air's curly. P'raps yer'd like 'er."
"Take me to see her."
"She'd look better to-morrow," cautiously, "when the swellin's gone down round 'er eye."
Dart started—and it was because he had for the last five minutes forgotten something.
"I shall not be here to-morrow," he said. His grasp upon the thing in his pocket had loosened, and he tightened it.
"I have some more money in my purse," he said deliberately. "I meant to give it away before going. I want to give it to people who need it very much."
She gave him one of the sly, squinting glances.
"Deservin' cases?" She put it to him in brazen mockery.