“Play the game!” she muttered. “Wot d’yer want me to do?”
“The doctor doesn’t want him excited, Lizzie,” explained Lethbridge. “But he wants him to stop here to-night, so that he can operate to-morrow. Will you tell him that you want him to stop here?—and stay here with him if you like.”
“And to-morrer she’ll tike ’im.” The girl was staring at Sybil’s photograph. “ ’E won’t look at me—when ’e knows. Gawd! why did yer find ’im—why did yer find ’im? We was ’appy, I tells yer—’appy!”
She was crying now—crying as a child cries, weakly and pitifully, and Lethbridge stood watching her in silence.
“Poor kid!” he said at length. “Poor little kid!”
“I don’t want yer pity,” she flared up. “I want my man.” And then, as she saw Jimmy looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece, in an instant she was beside him. “Sorry, old sport,” she whispered impulsively. “Reckon you’ve backed a ruddy loser yourself. I’ll do it. Shake ’ands. I guess I knew all along that Bill wasn’t really my style. And I’ve ’ad my year.”
“You’re lucky, Lizzie,” said Jimmy gravely, still holding her hand. “Very, very lucky.”
“I’ve ’ad my year,” she went on, and for a moment her thoughts seemed far away. “A ’ole year—and——” she pulled herself together and started patting her hair.
“And what, Lizzie?” said Jimmy quietly.
“Never you mind, mister,” she answered. “That’s my blooming business.”