He noted her swift disappointment. There was positive pain in the air. He knew well what she was thinking, though her sweet face covered well: that he was about to promise to send the money to her, that ancient beau business. She took a last chance, and mentioned a booking agency that might answer for a permanent address.
“I’ll want to write—I feel that. And here, Bessie, if you don’t mind my saying ‘Bessie,’ I can spare a hundred for that wardrobe. I’d like to do some really big thing for you.”
He saw tears start to her eyes, but was not carried out of reason by them. She had wanted the money fiercely and it had come.
“How are you going to get home?” he asked, to relieve the embarrassment.
She glanced up quickly.
“I don’t mean that I want to take you home,” he said, shocked by the ugliness of the world that had called this explanation so hastily. “My train needs me.... Say, Bessie, men haven’t supplied you with altogether pleasant experiences so far, have they?”
“I’ll get a car home.”
He gave her his card.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Better let me get you a cab to-night. It’s late.”