“Oh, no, you didn’t,” I replied. “You are telling me one of the oldest stories of the trade. Now the truth is you are a silly little liar and you think you are going to frighten me, by telling me this, into giving you two or three pounds. You can save yourself the trouble. I don’t intend to do it.”
I had every intention of giving her two or three if it suited my mood later, but she was not to know this now.
My little Welsh girl was all at sea at once. Her powerless but really sweet eyes showed it. Something hurt—the pathos of her courage and endurance in the face of my contemptuous attitude. I had made fun of her obvious little lies and railed at her transparent tricks.
“I’m a new experience in men,” I suggested.
“Men! I don’t want to know anything more about them,” she returned with sudden fury. “I’m sick of them—the whole lot of them! If I could get out of this I would. I wish I need never see another man!”
I did not doubt the sincerity of this outburst. But I affected not to believe her.
“It’s true!” she insisted sullenly.
“You say that, but that’s talk. If you wanted to get out, you would. Why don’t you get a job at something? You can work.”
“I don’t know any trade now and I’m too old to learn.”
“What nonsense! You’re not more than nineteen and you could do anything you pleased. You won’t, though. You are like all the others. This is the easy way. Come,” I said more gently, “put on your things and let’s get out of this.”