“I’m not dressed. . . .”
“It don’t matter,” said Joe. “So long as you have the price.”
“But I haven’t,” said Wilfred desperately.
“Oh Hell!” said Joe. “I didn’t suppose you had. This is on me. . . . Look!” He produced a wallet from his breast pocket, and partly opening it, revealed a thick stuffing of crisp new yellow-backed bills. “That’s my Sunday money. I’ll go halves with you.”
“I . . . I couldn’t,” stammered Wilfred, grinding his teeth.
“Why not? Money means nothing to me. I mean spending money. It would be fun to give you a swell, expensive time for once. You look as if you needed it. Come on; to-morrow’s Sunday.”
Wilfred thought: This is not generosity, but merely the desire to shine at my expense. He was almost suffocated with wounded pride. He could not trust himself to speak; but merely shook his head again.
Joe was enjoying his discomfiture. “Haven’t you ever?” he asked, grinning.
“Sure!” lied Wilfred. “But I didn’t buy it.”
“Oh, sure!” said Joe. “Love. That’s all right, too. But there’s something about a pretty girl you never saw before, and never expect to see again . . . you don’t give a damn, and she don’t. . . . Look here, I’ll lend you the money. You can pay me back.” He held up a finger for François.