"As a matter of fact," he said, "he's gone off to bed, and I am quite certain that he will not change his mind. I waited here to tell you about him, Lutie, because I felt you ought to be prepared in case he does come back and you happen to see him skulking around in—"
"This isn't news to me, Simmy," she said seriously. "A half dozen times in the past two weeks I have caught sight of him, always in some convenient spot where he could watch me without much prospect of being seen. He seems to possess an uncanny knowledge of my comings and goings. I never see him in the daytime. I felt sure that he would be outside this place to-night, so when I came in I made it a point to look up and down the street,—casually, of course. There was a man across the street. I couldn't be sure, but I thought it was George. It has been getting on my nerves, Simmy." Her hand shook slightly, but what he had taken for alarm was gone from her eyes. Instead they were shining brightly, and her lips remained parted after she had finished speaking.
"Needn't have any fear of him," said he. "George is a gentleman. He still worships you, Lutie,—poor devil. He'll probably drink himself to death because of it, too. Of course you know that he is completely down and out? Little more than a common bum and street loafer."
"He—he doesn't like whiskey," said she, after a moment.
"One doesn't have to like it to drink it, you know."
"He could stop it if he tried."
"Like a flash. But he isn't going to try. At least, not until he feels that it's worth while."
She looked up quickly. "What do you mean by that?" Without waiting for him to answer, she went on: "How can you expect me to do anything to help him? I am sorry for him, but—but, heavens and earth, Simmy, I can't preach temperance to a man who kicked me out of his house when he was sober, can I?"
"You loved him, didn't you?"
She flushed deeply. "I—I—oh, certainly."