She considered his case with fitting gravity.
"Then you aren't married?"
"Nobody would have me."
"Yes, they would, if ..."
She did not turn up her nose, but she favored his dirt and rags with a look of disapprobation he could not mistake.
"Go on," he half-shouted. "Shoot it into me. If I was washed—if I wore good clothes—if I was respectable—if I had a job and worked regular—if I wasn't what I am."
To each statement she nodded.
"Well, I ain't that kind," he rushed on. "I'm no good. I'm a tramp. I don't want to work, that's what. And I like dirt."
Her face was eloquent with reproach as she said, "Then you were only making believe when you wished you had a little girl like me?"
This left him speechless, for he knew, in all the depths of his new-found passion, that that was just what he did want.