wouldn't, not if he was walking the soles off his boots to come to you.
You never think about him. He's like dirt, to you. Yet you go out with
him time after time...." Her lips as she broke off were pursed into a
trembling unhappy pout, sure forerunner of tears. Her voice was weak
with feeling. The memory of lonely evenings surged into her mind,
evenings when Jenny was out with Alf, while she, the drudge, stayed at
home with Pa, until she was desperate with the sense of unutterable
wrong. "Time after time, you go."

"Sorry, I'm sure!" flung back Jenny, fairly in the fray, too quick not
to read the plain message of Emmy's tone and expression, too cruel to
relinquish the sudden advantage. "I never guessed you wanted him. I
wouldn't have done it for worlds. You never _said_, you know!"
Satirically, she concluded, with a studiously careful accent, which she
used when she wanted to indicate scorn or innuendo, "I'm sorry. I ought
to have asked if I might!" Then, with a dash into grimmer satire: "Why
doesn't he ask you to go with him? Funny his asking me, isn't it?"

Emmy grew violently crimson. Her voice had a roughness in it. She was
mortally wounded.

"Anybody'd know you were a lady!" she said warmly.

"They're welcome!" retorted Jenny. Her eyes flashed, glittering in the
paltry gaslight. "He's never ... Emmy, I didn't know you were such a
silly little fool. Fancy going on like that ... about a man like him. At
your age!"

Vehement glances flashed between them. All Emmy's jealousy was in her
face, clear as day. Jenny drew a sharp breath. Then, obstinately, she