"Partly. The rest was—the other thing."
"You did like him, then!"
"Not—too much."
"I understand that. But it's over now, isn't it?"
Cynthia stood idly turning her muff between her white-gloved hands.
"Oh, yes," she said, after a moment, "it's over. But I'm thinking how nearly over it was with me, once or twice that winter. I thought I knew how to take care of myself. But a girl never knows, Jacqueline. Cold, hunger, debt, shabby clothes are bad enough; loneliness is worse. Yet, these are not enough, by themselves. But if we like a man, with all that to worry over—then it's pretty hard on us."
"How could you care for a bad man?"
"Bad? Did I say he was? I meant he was like other men. A girl becomes accustomed to men."
"And likes them, notwithstanding?"
"Some of them. It depends. If you like a man you seem to like him anyhow. You may get angry, too, and still like him. There's so much of the child in them. I've learned that. They're bad; but when you like one of them, he seems to belong to you, somehow—badness and all. I must be going, dear."