She spoke utterly without shame or reticence, as a life-prisoner tells his past to a fellow-prisoner; and Conroy nodded across the smoke-rings.
'Do you remember when you got into the carriage?' she asked. '(Oh, I wish I had some knitting!) Did you notice aught, lad?'
Conroy thought back. It was ages since. 'Wasn't there some one outside the door--crying?' he asked.
'He's--he's the little man I was engaged to,' she said. 'But I made him break it off. I told him 'twas no good. But he won't, yo' see.'
'That fellow? Why, he doesn't come up to your shoulder.'
'That's naught to do with it. I think all the world of him. I'm a foolish wench'--her speech wandered as she settled herself cosily, one elbow on the arm-rest. 'We'd been engaged--I couldn't help that--and he worships the ground I tread on. But it's no use. I'm not responsible, you see. His two sisters are against it, though I've the money. They're right, but they think it's the dri-ink,' she drawled. 'They're Methody--the Skinners. You see, their grandfather that started the Patton Mills, he died o' the dri-ink.'
'I see,' said Conroy. The grave face before him under the lifted veil was troubled.
'George Skinner.' She breathed it softly. 'I'd make him a good wife, by God's gra-ace--if I could. But it's no use. I'm not responsible. But he'll not take "No" for an answer. I used to call him "Toots." He's of no consequence, yo' see.'
'That's in Dickens,' said Conroy, quite quickly. 'I haven't thought of Toots for years. He was at Doctor Blimber's.'
'And so--that's my trouble,' she concluded, ever so slightly wringing her hands. 'But I--don't you think--there's hope now?'