“Oh, until the doctor’s bill comes in, no doubt. For my part, I’d rather spend half-a-crown on a glass of claret, and a decent sized cutlet in the middle of the day, than fourpence in an ærated bread shop, and a guinea subsequently on tonics. But though I spake with the tongue of men and of angels, I shouldn’t hope to convince a woman on this point. I know it’s hopeless.”
Bridget smiled faintly. She wondered for how long eighty pounds a year would stand half-a-crown lunches.
“It might have been advisable to bring a mother, to-night, don’t you think?” he went on after a moment. “I know a chaperon is a thing of the past, but employed judiciously and in moderation she is not without her use—in her proper place, of course.”
He spoke in a tone of half laughing raillery, but Bridget’s smile faded.
Involuntarily she withdrew her hand from his arm.
“I’m not the sort of girl who requires a chaperon,” she replied coldly. “I’m a High School teacher. The High School teacher is used to going about alone. If she wasn’t she would die of loneliness in her lodgings,” she added; “and life is sweet even to a teacher.”
There was a ring of bitterness in her voice which startled him.
“I’m sorry,” he began. “It was the stupidest joke. I didn’t mean to be rude; please believe me,” he urged. He was conscious of feeling ridiculously eager to put himself right with her.
“You will forgive me, won’t you? But you look so young.” His voice had completely lost the slight tinge of mockery she had resented.
Bridget’s anger died.