“Will you take me?” she said suddenly.
“Me!” I laughed. “Why no! I’m speaking as one wastrel to another. How could I?”
“Would you if you could?”
“Well, er—I don’t think so. You see—I’m not that sort.”
“No, I knew you were not,” she said slowly; “you’re good man.”
“I’m not,” I protested indignantly. How one hates to be called “good”—especially if one is a woman.
“Yes, you are,” she insisted. Then she threw back her head with a certain fine pride, and the dark sea-blue eyes were unfathomable.
“You have saved my life. It is yours now. Will you not take me? I am good girl. I have always been serious, I have always been virtuous. I will work hard for you. I will help you while you are so poor; zen if one day you are become rich, famous, and you are tire of me, I will go away.”
I was taken aback. If there’s one thing worse than to be convicted of vice it’s to be convicted of virtue. I squirmed, stammered, shuffled.
“Well, you see I— Hang it all! somewhere in my make-up there’s that uncomfortable possession, a Puritan conscience. I’m sorry—let me consider.... Perhaps there’s another way.”