Her eyes! How blue and bright they were now, as they regarded me over her coffee! And how long, I wondered, had that wistful mouth been a stranger to smiles?
“Let me see you smile,” I begged.
I thought so. A flash of teeth that made me think of an advertising poster for a popular dentifrice. Again I noted the darkness of her hair, setting off the porcelain whiteness of her skin. Again I approved of the full forehead, and the frank eyebrows. Again the girl stirred me strangely. And to think that she might have been at the bottom of that hideous river by now! I felt a sudden pity for her, and a wish to shield her from further ill.
“And now for the story,” I said, as she finished. “I have told you mine, you know.”
“Ah, mine! It is not so interesting. There is not much to tell. My fazzaire die when I was leetle girl, and I go to the convent. There I learn to do the hem-broderie, and when I leave the Sisters I work in atalier in Paris. It was so hard. We work from eight by the morning till seven at night. There was t’irty girl all in one leetle room, and some girls was poitrinaire.”
“What’s that?”
“Ah ... what you call it—yes, consumption. Well, I begin to become that no more can I stand it, so I come to Londres and try to get work. Every day I try so ’ard for one month, for I can speak English not much. Then just as I have no money left I get work in atalier at the hem-broderie. It was not so ’ard as in Paris, and I was very ’appy. But pretty soon I am seek, and it is necessaire I go to the hospital. It was the appendicite. When I get out I try to get back to the atalier, but my place have been fill. No work, no money—truly, I have no chance.”
“Well, what happened then?”
“Ah! then it was not interesting. I often go very hungry. I live for many days on bread, just bread. But by and by I get more work. Then again I am very ’appy. But I have no chance. I become seek once more. I have headache very much; my hair tumble out, and every night I cry. But I try very ’ard. I must keep my work, I must, I must. Then the doctor tell me I must have more air. I must respire. I tell him it is not for the poor to respire, and he say you must do something outside, or you will die. Well, I leave the atalier and for two months I fetch somesing outside. But I have no chance. Once more my money is finish, then one day I get work with Monsieur O’Flazzaire. I would not have taken it, but that I am starve, and I am ’fraid. It was so ’ard, and every day I get more weak. Then, yesterday, he tell me: ‘Go! I don’ pay you,’—and I don’ care for myself any more.”
“Why,” I said gravely, looking her in the face, “did you not do as others would have done?”