After a pause he moved nearer to me, and I thought he was going to put his arm about me, but he did not. He said in a low voice:
"You can have all the fine clothes you want."
"I wish I could," I returned, sighing; "but one can't dress very beautifully on the salary I get."
"What do you get?" he asked, and I told him. Then he wanted me to tell him all about myself—just what I had been doing, whom I had met, what men, and to leave out nothing. I don't know why, but he seemed to think something extraordinary had happened to me, for he repeated several times:
"Tell me everything, every detail. I want to know."
So I did.
I told him of the Y. W. C. A. woman who had met me; of my failure with the newspaper offices; of my long hunt for work; of the insults and propositions men had made to me; of my work at the yards; and of O'Brien, my "boss," who had taken me on trust and had been so good to me.
He never interrupted me once, nor asked me a single question, but let me tell him everything in my own way. Then when I was through, he took his arm down, put his hands together, and leaned over, with his elbows on his knees, staring out before him. After a while he said:
"Do you mean to tell me you like living at this—er—Y. W. C. A.?"
I nodded.