There was firmness enough in this speech; altogether too much. But I was as firm as she was.
“I shall not go,” I reiterated. “I shall not leave you—in a place like this. It isn't a fit place for you to be in. You know it is not. Good heavens! you MUST know it?”
“I know what the place is,” she said quietly.
“You know! And yet you stay here! Why? You can't like it!”
It was a foolish speech, and I blurted it without thought. She did not answer. Instead she began to walk toward the corner. I followed her.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, contritely. “I did not mean that, of course. But I cannot think of your singing night after night in such a place—before those men and women. It isn't right; it isn't—you shall not do it.”
She answered without halting in her walk.
“I shall do it,” she said. “They pay me well, very well, and I—I need the money. When I have earned and saved what I need I shall give it up, of course. As for liking the work—Like it! Oh, how can you!”
“I beg your pardon. Forgive me. I ought to be shot for saying that. I know you can't like it. But you must not stay here. You must come with me.”
“No, Mr. Knowles, I am not coming with you. And you must leave me and never come back. My sole reason for seeing you to-night was to tell you that. But—” she hesitated and then said, with quiet emphasis, “you may tell my aunt not to worry about me. In spite of my singing in a cafe chantant I shall keep my self-respect. I shall not be—like those others. And when I have paid my debt—I can't pay my father's; I wish I could—I shall send you the money. When I do that you will know that I have resigned my present position and am trying to find a more respectable one. Good-by.”