She gave it with a little confiding, snuggling movement, and she
continued: "You must believe, because I have thought it all out,
whereas to you it is new. If I were a proper-spirited girl"--she
rebuked his negation with a gesture--"if I were a proper-spirited
girl I know I should leave Mrs. Chater at once--walk out and not care
what I might suffer rather than stay where I had been insulted. Girls
in books would do it. Oh, Georgie, this isn't books. This is real. I
have been through it, and I would die sooner than face it again. You
know--I have told you--what it is like being alone in cheap lodgings
in London. Afraid of people, dear. Afraid of men, afraid of women. I
couldn't, could not go through it again. And after all-don't you see?
--if Mrs. Chater will let me stay, what have I to mind? I shall be
better off than before, if anything. Mrs. Chater has always been--
well, sharp. She may be a little worse--there's nothing in that. But
this Bob Chater, since he came, has been the worst part of it. And as
things are now, his mother watchful and he--what shall I say? angry,
ashamed--why, he will pay no further attention to me. Come, am I not
right? Isn't it best?--if only she will let me stay."

"I don't like it," George said. "I don't like it."

"Dearest, nor I. But we can't, can't have what we like, and this will
be the best of the nasty things. For so short a time, too. I'm quite
bright about it. Am I not? Look at me."

George looked. Then he said, "All right, old girl."

She clapped her hands. "Only one thing more. You mustn't seek out--you
mustn't touch the detestable Bob."