“Won’t you sit down? It’s a miserable fire, I’m afraid,” she apologized, dropping on to her knees and battering unscientifically with a bent poker on the top of three sadly smouldering lumps of coal, each too big for the tiny grate.
“I’m not cold, thanks... How long have you been in these quarters?”
“Two months.”
“And who looks after you?”
“A woman comes in and cooks my breakfast and cleans the place. I usually have my other meals out.” Eric was not conscious that his expression had changed, but the girl looked up piteously and turned away to the fire. “Don’t look so disapproving! I’m not defending myself!”
“My dear child, I’m not attacking you. Haven’t I come here solely to find out if I can be of any assistance to you?”
She jabbed at the fire in reflective silence, and Eric, watching her through half-closed eyes, seemed to see rippling waves of unhappiness, disappointment, loneliness and discomfort rising until they submerged her and she ceased to struggle. She was white and tired; her arms were thin and her shoulder-blades sharply outlined under the green gauze of her dress, as she stolidly poked the fire and refused to look at him. The air of assured efficiency which she had worn in New York never seemed more than the assertive protest of extreme youth against patronage; her abandonment of it now suggested that she habitually attacked and then ran away, first disregarding advice, then admitting her mistake where a stronger woman would have converted it into success and where a prouder woman would have preserved silence. Perhaps it was too much to expect great strength or pride in a girl of nineteen whose head was still fermenting with unassimilated catch-words.
“It was very good of you to come. And it was awful cheek of me to ask you.”
“Imagine—for one night—that I’m quite human,” Eric suggested.
She jumped up and ran to the door.