"You'd better leave me alone, I'm no good;" she said. "I'm much obliged
to you, but I don't want any charity or probation houses in mine. And
honest work's a thing of the past for me--even if I could get a job.
Nobody would have me. But if they would, I couldn't work any more.
I've got out of the hang of it." With a swift and decisive movement she
crossed the room, opened a cabinet on the wall, revealing a bottle and
glasses.

"So you're bent upon going--downhill?" he said.

"What can you do to stop it?" she retorted defiantly, "Give me religion
---I guess you'd tell me. Religion's all right for those on top, but
say, it would be a joke if I got it. There ain't any danger. But if I
did, it wouldn't pay room-rent and board."

He sat mute. Once more the truth overwhelmed, the folly of his former
optimism arose to mock him. What he beheld now, in its true aspect, was
a disease of that civilization he had championed. . .

She took the bottle from the cupboard and laid it on the table.

"What's the difference?" she demanded. "It's all over in a little while,
anyway. I guess you'd tell me there was a hell. But if that's so, some
of your church folks'll broil, too. I'll take my chance on it, if they
will." She looked at him, half in defiance, half in friendliness, across
the table. "Say, you mean all right, but you're only wastin' time here.
You can't do me any good, I tell you, and I've got to get busy."

"May we not at least remain friends?" he asked, after a moment.