“A pal for life, I mean, old girl.”
By the time they had reached the opposite kerb, Mary was quivering. And the color in her face surmounted the natural pallor of her profession.
“Oh!—but, Philip—”
“You will, old girl!”
“I don’t think that Granny—besides—!”
“Besides what, old girl?” The knitted chocolate waistcoat was being grievously assaulted.
“It wouldn’t do—for you, I mean—although it is sweet of you to have asked me, Philip.”
“It’s whether it would do for you, old girl. I’m not much of a chap, I know, but I should begin to pick up a bit—I’m sure I should—if I had got a real pal like you to pull my socks up for me.”
“It isn’t because I don’t like you, Philip,” said Mary, so nicely that the owner of the knitted chocolate waistcoat wanted to clasp her to it in one of London’s most important thoroughfares. “It is because I do.”
“Won’t you risk it, anyway?”