"I thought it was Miss Summers," she cried.
Gaga stood there smiling shyly, and looking at her with his appealing eyes. In this light he looked very handsome, and Sally felt almost sorry to see that he also looked tired. His face was quite grey, and his movements were those of an exceedingly nervous person who would always shrink from roughness.
"I'm so sorry you should have had to work so late," he said.
"Oo, it's nothing," cried Sally. "Do me good. If I was at home I should only be working there," she added, explanatorily. "Work, work, work."
"Don't you ever get any fun?" asked Gaga, timidly. "I mean, go out, or anything?"
Sally shook her head. She was silhouetted against the light.
"No," she told him. "Not often." It was strange how refined her voice automatically became when she was talking to Gaga. She was altogether restrained. "You can't if you've got to earn your own living. And have to get here early in the morning."
Gaga hesitated, half turned away, came back.
"I'm very sorry," he said, in his gentle, weak way. "Don't you like it? I mean going out. Or is it just that you don't get the chance? Poor little girl. Er— I'm sorry. Er—it's a beautiful night, isn't it?"
"Lovely," agreed Sally. "I'm going to walk home."