He was right there: Lily was not bad; she was as far from sin as she was from virtue—just a little, unmoral, very amiable animal.
As for Maurice, he continued to discuss her future of rectitude and honor—his imagination reaching in a bound amazing heights. Why not be a trained nurse?—and have a hospital of her own, and gather about her, as assistants, girls who—"well, had had a tough time of it," he said, delicately. As he talked, fatigue at the boredom of his highly moral sentiments crept into her face. She swallowed an occasional yawn, and murmured to most of his statements, "Is that so?" She was sleepy, and wished he would stop talking....
"Guess I'll be going along," she said, good-naturedly.
"I'll come and see you to-morrow," Maurice said, impassioned with the idea of saving her; "then I'll tell you what my wife will do for you."
They went out together and walked toward Lily's rooms; but somehow they both fell silent. Lily was again afraid of Batty, and Maurice's exhilaration had begun to ebb; there came into his mind the bleak remembrance of the overturned table and Eleanor's sobs....
At the door of the apartment house where Lily lived, she said, nervously, "I'd ask you to come in, but he—"
"Oh, I understand; I've no desire to meet the gentleman! What time will I come to-morrow, when he's not around?"
She reflected, uneasily: "Well, I ain't sure—"
Before she could finish, Batty loomed up beside them. He was plainly drunk. "I lost my key," he said; "and I've been waiting—"
"Good night, Miss Lily," Maurice said,—"If he's nasty to her, I'll go back," he thought. He was only halfway down the block when he heard a little piping scream—"O-o-o-w! O-o-o-w!" He turned, and saw her trying to pull her hand away from Batty's twisting grip: he was at her side in a moment: "Here! Drop it!" he said, sharply—and landed an extremely neat blow on the drunken man's jaw. Batty, rubbing his cheek, and staring at this very unexpected assailant in profound and giggling astonishment, slouched into the house.