“Oh, I can't tell you,” ses Miss Gill. “It doesn't matter; I'll try and cheer up. Wot a lovely day it is, isn't it? I shall remember it all my life.”
“Wot is it worrying you?” ses Ginger, in a determined voice. “Can't you tell me?”
“No,” ses the gal, shaking her 'ead, “I can't tell you because you might want to 'elp me, and I couldn't allow that.”
“Why shouldn't I 'elp you?” ses Ginger. “It's wot we was put 'ere for: to 'elp one another.”
“I couldn't tell you,” ses the gal, just dabbing at'er eyes—with a lace pocket-'ankercher about one and a 'arf times the size of 'er nose.
“Not if I ask you to?” ses Ginger.
Miss Gill shook 'er 'ead, and then she tried her 'ardest to turn the conversation. She talked about the weather, and the monkey-'ouse, and a gal in 'er street whose 'air changed from red to black in a single night; but it was all no good, Ginger wouldn't be put off, and at last she ses—
“Well,” she ses, “if you must know, I'm in a difficulty; I 'ave got to get three pounds, and where to get it I don't know any more than the man in the moon. Now let's talk about something else.”
“Do you owe it?” ses Ginger.
“I can't tell you any more,” ses Miss Gill, “and I wouldn't 'ave told you that only you asked me, and somehow I feel as though I 'ave to tell you things, when you want me to.”