"I liked you the first time you came in here--that night--when you wanted
me to be friends; well, there was something that seemed to make it
impossible then. I felt it, if you didn't." She groped for words.
"I can't explain what it was, but now it's gone. You're different.
I think a lot more of you. Maybe it's because of what you did at
Harrod's, sitting down with me and giving me supper when I was so hungry,
and the champagne. You weren't ashamed of me."

"Good God, why should I have been!" he exclaimed.

"You! Why shouldn't you?" she cried fiercely.

"There's hardly a man in that place that wouldn't have been. They all
know me by sight--and some of 'em better. You didn't see 'em grinning
when I came up to you, but I did. My God--it's awful--it's awful I...."
She burst into violent weeping, long deferred.

He took her hand in his, and did not speak, waiting for the fit to spend
itself . . . . And after a while the convulsive shudders that shook
her gradually ceased.

"You must trust me," he said. "The first thing tomorrow I'm going to
make arrangements for you to get out of these rooms. You can't stay here
any longer."

"That's sure," she answered, trying to smile. "I'm broke. I even owe
the co--the policeman."

"The policeman!"