"What did he say?" she demanded.
"Why," Locke smiled, "something about London, and selling flowers."
"Well, it is quite true," she said slowly. "That is exactly what I was—a flower girl in London—on the street corners."
"I sell bonds—when I can—and wherever I can." Locke was laughing again—he was not quite sure whether he was striving the more to put her or himself at ease. "I can't see any difference on the basis of pure commerce between the two—except perhaps that the flowers are the more honest offering of the two. Bonds sometimes are not always what they seem."
She shook her head.
"That's very nice of you, Mr. Locke," she said. She was studying her clasped hands again. "But—but of course, as you quite well know, that has nothing whatever to do with what I am saying. You know London, don't you?"
"Why, yes; a bit," he answered.
"Yes," she said. "I think you do. Indeed, from what you have said to-day, I am sure you know it better than any American I have ever met before; and, indeed, far better than most people who live there all their lives. And so—and so"—her voice broke a little, then steadied instantly—"it is not necessary to go into any details, for you will understand quite well when I say that I lived in Whitechapel, and even there where only the cheapest room was to be found, and that when I sold flowers I did not have any shoes—and to the police I was known as a gutter-snipe."
He was beside her, bending over her.
"My God, Miss Wickes—Polly," he burst out, "why do you hurt yourself like this!"