“Mercenary,” she interjected, with a sad little smile.
He looked at her. “Yes; and Tom—”
“Fickle,” she ended again.
“Yes, and Tom fickle. Why, it shakes the foundations!”
The girl felt a sudden wave of shame and weariness. She must go. She hadn't been fair, but it had been so sudden, so difficult. She looked at him, and getting up, wondered if she would ever see him again.
“I must go,” she said. “I came—” She hesitated, and a sudden desire to have him know her as herself swept over her. It needed only another lie or two in the beginning, and then some truth would come through to sustain her. She went on: “I came because I wanted to know what you were like; Tom had talked so much of you, and I wanted some one to understand and perhaps explain; and now I must go and leave your warm, delightful room for the comfortless place I live in. Don't think too hardly of me.”
Amory shook his head. “You don't leave me until you have had your tea.” He rang the bell. “But what do you mean by a comfortless home? Does Mrs. White neglect you?”
She looked at the fire. “I don't live with her—now; I live alone; I work for my living.”
Amory got up as the maid brought in the tea-tray, and setting it beside them, he poured out her tea; as he handed her the cup, he brought his brows together sternly, as though making out her very mysterious words.
“You work for your living?” he repeated. “I thought you lived with Mrs. White, and that they were well off.”