“I thought you had gone,” she said. “No, don’t touch me. I’m in trouble. My father—” she covered her face with her hands.
“Yes, I know,” said Druce. “I heard it all. Why do you stay here? Why do you—”
“It isn’t that,” retorted the girl, too proud to accept sympathy. “You made me lie to my mother. That is the first time I ever deceived my mother.”
“Don’t cry,” said Druce. He drew her to the bench. “Come,” he went on, “be sensible. Dry those tears. Come with me to Chicago.”
“How do you know I could get a chance to sing in that place you told me of?” she demanded, open to argument.
Druce pressed his advantage. “Why,” he said, “I’m interested in one myself. I think I could arrange to place you.”
“Martin,” said Elsie, “you said you were in the live stock business.”
Druce hesitated a moment, toying with his cane. “I am,” he said slowly. “This cabaret—er—is a little speculation on the side. Come now, say you’ll be at the train at eight o’clock.”
The girl considered long.
“Think,” said Druce, “with one hundred dollars a week you will be able to take your mother out of this hole. Why, you’ll be independent! You owe it to your family not to let this opportunity escape you.”