"You mean," said Tom, rather angrily, "that if you continue to keep company with me I must feed on your religious lolly-pops."
An angry flush mounted the girl's cheek, but she continued to speak quietly.
"Tom," she said, "will you answer me truly? Do you find anything at the Thorn and Thistle better than you found in the young men's class? You sneer at religion, but religion does no one any harm; rather it always does good; anyhow, it's everything to me, and you have to make your choice."
Tom looked at her steadily. He knew what she meant, knew too that the time had come when he would have to make his choice. At that moment he saw what Polly Powell meant to his life, saw, too, that if he followed the road in which he had been walking during the last few months he would have to give up Alice Lister. He saw more than this, for at that moment Polly Powell's blandishments had no effect on him. She appeared to him in her true light—a coarse, vulgar girl.
"You don't care about me like you did," he said angrily. "You are getting tired of me."
"If that were true I should not speak to you in this way," and her voice became tremulous. "But I am not going to throw away my life, Tom; there's something more in life than—than love."
"What?" he asked.
"Duty, God," was the reply.
Tom again laughed uneasily. Alice Lister lived in a different world from that in which Polly Powell lived; they breathed a different atmosphere; they spoke a different language. Yes, he would have to make his choice.
"I would rather have you than forty Polly Powells," he burst out, "I would really, Alice, but—but——"