"The devil you are!" says I.
"Yes," says she, sobbing as though her heart would break, "and I'm not sorry neither."
"You wouldn't confess it an you were," says I.
"No, I wouldn't," she sobbed.
I must admit that the sight of the sweet chit was the one thing in all the world that had the power to please me at that hour, yet there was not a thing that could have happened to leave me in so sore a case. Here had my prettiness come and thrown herself on my protection—on the protection of a man utterly ruined, whom the law was already dogging for his liberty, if not his life. In sooth I must send her back again. It was no sort of a reception, especially when one fell to consider the heroical fashion of her coming to me. But what else was one to do? I was at my last gasp, without so much as a guinea, or a roof for my head, since to stay in that house was to court arrest, nor had I a friend in the world to whom I would dare to recommend her.
"Cynthia," says I, "I dote upon the sight of you; I am filled with joy to see you sitting there, but—but——"
How could I tell the child!
"But—but?" She sobbed no more. Mopping her tears, she crumpled the sopping handkerchief in her little fist, sat perfectly upright in her seat, and stared so straight at me that I felt the blood hum in my ears.
"But—but!" says I again—devil take me if I could tell her.
"But—but?" says she on her part; and it was wonderful to see her blue eyes come open and her proud lips spring together like the snap of a watch-case.