"Why are you so upset, Smithy? After all, it's just what we planned—just what you wanted. He's rich—very rich. He was explaining to me how rich. And I need money—a great deal of it—to live and die beautifully——"
"Sigrid!" The cry snapped the palsy which had laid itself on Mrs. Smithers's tongue. She came out of her weakness strong and fierce and outraged. It did not matter that her "h's" flew to the winds. There was nothing comic in her as she stood there, stemming the disaster with her utter disbelief. "You can't mean it—it would be a wicked, wicked thing. It would be a crime—a dirty crime—you'd be selling yourself—yes, I shall say it, Sigrid. I've stood by you through thick and thin, I 'ave; I've been like a dog that's never questioned, never thought if what you did was right or wrong—I've licked your hand through everything—but you'd be no better than—than a woman on the streets——"
"Be silent!"
"I won't. This isn't what we planned. It's different. I'll fight you, Sigrid. I'll fight you every inch. I've got my share in you—I won't 'ave it spoiled and moiled. I won't." She paused an instant, drawing her breath deep and strong. "I'd kill 'im first," she said, between her teeth.
Sigrid half turned. Her face looked small and white, as though something withering had passed over it. The wry, unsteady smile at the corners of her blue-shadowed lips was like light on something dead.
"Not if I didn't wish it, Smithy. I daresay I shan't do it—I don't know yet; but, in any case, you can't get away—you'll lick my hand, as you call it, to the very end."
They eyed each other like enemies, battling will against will. The old woman wavered piteously.
"Sigrid, my dear—'ave pity—just because it's true—because I can't fight you—because I belong to you—'ave pity on yourself. Don't do it, my dear, don't do it, Sigrid. I've got a bit of money saved. You can 'ave it—every penny of it. I don't want it. It's your money—what you've given me. An old woman like me doesn't want much. Take it, Sigrid; it'll keep you for a bit, until—until——"
"It won't do, Smithy—I want money—a great deal of money. It costs so much to live magnificently—" She spoke with great slowness and deliberation. Suddenly she turned. There was a kind of panic in her eyes. "Life's not got to be too strong for me—I've got to go on as I will—stick to me!"
A wave of delicate, youthful colour swept up into Mrs. Smithers's cheeks. Her whole life, lived selflessly, loyally, in another's splendour culminated in this moment—in this appeal. She held out her arms, holding the half-yielding half-defiant figure in an embrace which challenged heaven and earth.