“Yes,” said Miss Moonbeam. “But oughtn’t we to do something? It doesn’t seem right just to let it go on.”
“Oh, no,” I cried. “Nor it is. Nor it is, Miss Moonbeam. Believe me.”
“I do,” she said. “I do believe you. Get out of the light, Bags. I want to look at him.”
For a moment I sat in silence, permitting her to feast her eyes. Then she bent forward a little, holding out her hands.
“Oh, Mr. Carp,” she said, “I’m only a poor actress. Help me to be better. Help me to be like you.”
Withdrawing my gloves and putting them in my left-hand pocket, I advanced towards her and took hold of her hands.
“My dear Miss Moonbeam,” I said.
But she looked at me rather pathetically.
“Oh, Mr. Carp,” she said, “won’t you call me Mary?”
I considered for a moment. It was a difficult position. For though I could not help feeling that she was a little presumptuous, I had to remember that this was probably the first occasion on which she had met a really good man. I therefore decided to grant her petition.