She was looking at me with wistful and pathetic eyes, and the street lamp beside us shone full on her face. There was a long interval of silence, and I did not know what to say next. Many a time had I thought of our next meeting, and my head was usually teeming with the words of welcome which I would say to her. But now I was almost at a loss for one single word. The situation was strained, and she showed signs of taking her departure.
"Where are you going at this hour of the night, Norah?" I asked impulsively.
"I'm goin' for a walk."
"Where are you working?"
Well did I know her work, but I could not resist asking her the question. The next moment I was sorry for my words. Norah's face became white, she stammered a few words about being a servant in a gentleman's house, then suddenly burst into tears.
"Don't cry," I said in a lame sort of manner. "What's wrong?"
She kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, and did not answer. I could see her bosom heaving, and hear the low sobs that she tried vainly to suppress. We stood there for nearly five minutes without a word. Then she held out her hand.
"Slan agiv,[12] Dermod," she said. "I must be goin'. It was good of ye to speak to me in that nice way of yers, Dermod."
The hand which she placed in mine was limp and cold. I struggled to find words to express my feelings at the moment, but my tongue was tied, and my mind was teeming with thoughts which I could not express. She drew her hand softly from mine and walked back the way she had come.
I stood there nonplussed, feeling conscious of some great wrong in allowing that grey-eyed Irish girl to wander alone through the naked streets of Glasgow. For years I had recognised the evils of prostitution, but never had those evils come home so sharply to me as they did at that moment. Despite my cynical views on love I had always a feeling deeper than friendship for Norah Ryan, and at times when I tried to analyse this feeling I found that it was not love; it was something more constant, less rash and less wavering. It was not subject to changes or stints, it was a hold-fast, the grip of which never lessened.