She stopped his half-spoken sentence with a negative gesture. "You don't
understand. I shall stay here."

"But even if they don't theek you here, you can't live here forever. The
friend that you wrote about who wath tho good to you, you know, can't
keep you here alwayth; and are you thure you can alwayth trutht her?"

"It isn't a woman; it's a man." She stopped short, and colored to the
line of her forehead. "Who said it was a woman?" she continued fiercely,
as if to cover her confusion with a burst of gratuitous anger. "Is that
another of your lies?"

Curson's lips, which for a moment had completely lost their smile, were
now drawn together in a prolonged whistle. He gazed curiously at her
gown, at her hat, at the bow of bright ribbon that tied her black hair,
and said, "Ah!"

"A poor man who has kept my secret," she went on hurriedly--"a man as
friendless and lonely as myself. Yes," disregarding Curson's cynical
smile, "a man who has shared everything--"

"Naturally," suggested Curson.

"And turned himself out of his only shelter to give me a roof and
covering," she continued mechanically, struggling with the new and
horrible fancy that his words awakened.

"And thlept every night at Indian Thpring to save your reputation," said
Curson. "Of courthe."