“Yes, all Americans may have money,” I smiled sardonically, “but they don’t go round spending it on such as you in that way. You’re not worth it.”
She looked at me, but no angry rage sprang to her eyes.
“It’s true just the same,” she said meekly. “You don’t like women, do you?” she asked.
“No, not very much.”
“You’re a woman-hater. That’s what you are. I’ve seen such.”
“Not a woman-hater, no. Simply not very much interested in them.”
She was perplexed, uncertain. I began to repent of my boorishness and recklessly lighted the fire (cost—one shilling). We drew up chairs before it and I plied her with questions. She told me of the police regulations which permit a woman to go with a man, if he speaks to her first, without being arrested—not otherwise—and of the large number of women who are in the business. Piccadilly is the great walking-ground, I understood, after one o’clock in the morning; Leicester Square and the regions adjacent, between seven and eleven. There is another place in the East End—I don’t recall where—where the poor Jews and others walk, but they are a dreadful lot, she assured me. The girls are lucky if they get three shillings and they are poor miserable drabs. I thought at the time, if she would look down on them, what must they be?
Then, somehow, because the conversation was getting friendly, I fancy, this little Welsh girl decided perhaps that I was not so severe as I seemed. Experience had trained her to think constantly of how much money she could extract from men—not the normal fee, there is little more than a poor living in that, but extravagant sums which produce fine clothes and jewels, according to their estimate of these things. It is an old story. Other women had told her of their successes. Those who know anything of women—the street type—know how often this is tried. She told the customary story of the man who picked her up and, having escorted her to her room, offered her a pound when three or four pounds or a much larger sum even was expected. The result was, of course, according to her, dreadful for the man. She created a great scene, broke some pottery over his head, and caused a general uproar in the house. It is an old trick. Your timid man hearing this and being possibly a new or infrequent adventurer in this world, becomes fearful of a scene. Many men are timid about bargaining with a woman beforehand. It smacks too much of the brutal and evil and after all there is a certain element of romance involved in these drabby liaisons for the average man, even if there is none—as there is none—for the woman. It is an old, sad, sickening, grim story to most of them and men are fools, dogs, idiots, with rarely anything fine or interesting in their eyes. When they see the least chance to betray one of them, to browbeat and rob or overcharge him in any way and by any trick, they are ready to do it. This girl, Lilly E——, had been schooled by perhaps a hundred experienced advisers of the street as to how this was done. I know this is so, for afterwards she told me of how other women did it.
But to continue: “He laid a sovereign on the table and I went for him,” she said.
I smiled, not so much in derision as amusement. The story did not fit her. Obviously it was not so.