“Look here,” he said after a moment, “you’ll never feel any better if you stay out here in the cold. I don’t suppose you’ve had a respectable meal for hours either––I know what women are. Where do you live? You’ll soon feel better when you get beside a fire and have something to eat.”
“I’m not going home any more,” she said.
She spoke quite quietly, but with a sort of despair which there was no mistaking.
Micky was a rapid thinker. He had clean forgotten his headache. This was adventure with a capital letter. There was still something of romance in the world which his jaded palate had not yet tasted.
“I’m sure you’re tired,” he said gently, “and probably fed-up. So am I. I was just wondering what in the world to do with myself when I heard you crying. It made me feel a sort of kinship with you––it did, upon 7 my word. If I’d been a woman I dare say I should have been howling like anything. Will you come along with me and let me give you some supper? I’m hungry too....”
She shrank back from him with a little gesture of fear.
“Oh no––please let me go!...”
She tried to pass him, but Micky barred the way.
“You can’t walk about the streets all night,” he said determinedly. “The cat will hate it anyway, even if you don’t mind.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice, though he had never felt more serious in all his life. “And if you don’t want me to take pity on you, you might at least take pity on me ... please don’t think I’m a bounder trying to annoy you or anything like that ... perhaps I want a friend just as badly as you do....” He stopped, aghast at his own temerity.
“If you do,” she said tremulously, “I am more sorry for you than I can say.”