'Not to me, I assure you,' said Conroy, and they leaned back and
laughed at the flatness of the words, after the hells through which they
had just risen.

'And now,' she said, strict eyes on Conroy, '_why_ wouldn't you take
me--not with a million in each stocking?'

'I don't know. That's what I've been puzzling over.'

'So have I. We're as handsome a couple as I've ever seen. Are you well
off, lad?'

'They call me so,' said Conroy, smiling.

'That's North country.' She laughed again. Setting aside my good looks
and yours, I've four thousand a year of my own, and the rents should
make it six. That's a match some old cats would lap tea all night to
fettle up.'

'It is. Lucky Toots!' said Conroy.

'Ay,' she answered, 'he'll be the luckiest lad in London if I win
through. Who's yours?'

'No--no one, dear. I've been in Hell for years. I only want to get out
and be alive and--so on. Isn't that reason enough?'

'Maybe, for a man. But I never minded things much till George came. I
was all stu-upid like.'