“Oh, Eustace—it’s clean after all! What a sweet big-hearted liar you are!”
She went up to him, pulled down his great head, and kissed him on the cheek.
“My God!” said she—“you make me sane.... But you are a wretched poor hand at any deceit.... A poorer evil-doer surely was never born.... But, as a matter of fact, the very heavens are against you this time—the bleating awful Thing has only just left the place.”
“Yes, God forgive me, I saw him. He smelt of Poudre d’Amour to the Haymarket.”
He led her to the sofa, sat down beside her, and took her hand:
“Don’t let us pollute the air with him any more,” he said—“let us talk about pleasant things—like you.”
The girl was becoming quieted.
“Yes,” she said—“I must try and keep myself from horrors—for the sake of the little one.... Eustace, I believe you have something of the woman in your big heart—and, thank God, you have come to me—for this man has made it impossible for me to talk to women.... So I have had to buy a book. It told me all about the influences upon the unborn child.... I must get the memory of this man out of my mind—cleanse my ears of him. You must come and see me and keep me from thinking—the blood that ought to be leaping for delight of this little one was being turned to poison—and, now, since big awkward you came into this twilight, I am almost glad the little one is coming.”
The big man, elbow on knee, leaned his chin on his knuckles and looked at her:
“Miss Polly,” said he—“I see a better way out. Suppose you let me father the child! You might do worse. I am a lonely man.”