The child—she seemed no older—sat down beside Nacha, and began to talk with her. Although she was actually seventeen, her slight, almost frail, figure made her seem barely fourteen or fifteen. Nacha was horrified by this little creature's presence in that place. Didn't her parents know where she was? And how could Mme. Annette let her come there? And the men, those respectable gentlemen who were such good friends of Madame's, how could they fail to utter a word of protest or of pity? No, she could not understand the world; for it despised her and all women like her, insulted her and pushed her towards crime and every form of misery; yet she was capable of feeling pity for the girl at her side; and she knew many women of her sort who would not have allowed a horror such as this child's presence there, to be committed. She wanted to ask this young thing to tell her how she came to be in such a place, but she hesitated. The other woman's presence embarrassed her.
"Tell me," Nacha whispered, taking the girl's hand. "Why is it—how does it happen that—?"
The child raised her clear innocent eyes to Nacha's, in wonder.
"Why do you come to this house?" Nacha asked finally, blushing for her curiosity.
The girl raised troubled eyes to Nacha; then she replied quite simply, without the slightest suggestion of reproach toward anyone in her voice:
"My aunt sends me."
"And how long have you been coming here?"
"Two months."
"And before that—you had a sweetheart? Who deceived you?"
"No, I never had a sweetheart. My aunt made me come—"