"How did you get away from Rose's, anyhow?" he asked.
Slowly she raised her head. Slowly she fixed him with her tired blue eyes. And slowly, still drawing arabesques now unregarded, she answered:
"Does that make much difference, Mr. Beekman?"
"Wasn't I interested?" he blustered.
"Because, you see," she concluded, "however it was, it wasn't by none of the help you promised."
The thrust just pierced his armor of convention.
"Oh, well," he said, "what could I do? I wanted to help—you know that—but what could I do?"
"Nothin'!" Her eyes clouded as if they looked at something which, though clear to sight, passed all explaining. "Nothin', I suppose."
The words lent him courage.
"And I can't do anything now," he went on, his anger cold, but his determination unchanged. "I'm sorry for you—on my word of honor, I am sorry for you with my whole heart, Violet—but you can't stay here—you must see that you can't stay in this house another night."