"It's a hard world for women, I know," said Pip, rather staggered by this outburst. "But some good chap is bound to come along and—er—make you happy, and all that. Hasn't there ever been—anybody of that kind?"
"Lots."
"None you cared about, perhaps?"
"Not one. Well, there was one. Jim Lister is his name. He is assistant stage-manager at the Crown Theatre."
"Well?" said Pip hopefully.
"I—I liked him well enough, but we should always have been poor—awfully poor—and—"
"If a couple are really fond of each other, nothing else matters a damn," said Pip, with conviction. "Sorry! I mean you might do worse."
Lottie rounded on him.
"There you go again. 'Might do worse!' 'Be thankful for small mercies!' It's a rotten game being a woman, Jack. You are a man and can't understand. But if you'd had as hard a time as I have,—yes, and if you'd seen half as much of this world as I have,—you'd be gentler with me, Jack."
Certainly the conversation was taking an unexpected turn. Pip was completely out of his depth. Ten minutes ago he had been a respectful chauffeur, teaching a rather flamboyant young mistress how to drive a car. Now he was sitting by the selfsame young mistress, holding her arm in a friendly fashion, and talking to her as an elder brother might talk to a petulant child.