"Well, I did," said Francie.
"You put it in the past, I see. You don't then any more."
If this remark was on her visitor's part the sign of a rare assurance the girl's gentleness was still unruffled by it. She hesitated, she even smiled; then she replied, "Oh yes, I do—only not so much."
"They have worked on you; but I should have thought they would have disgusted you. I don't care—even a little sympathy will do—whatever you've got left." He paused, looking at her, but she remained silent; so he went on: "There was no obligation for you to answer my questions—you might have shut me up, that day, with a word."
"Really?" Francie asked, with all her sweet good faith in her face. "I thought I had to—for fear I should appear ungrateful."
"Ungrateful?"
"Why to you—after what you had done. Don't you remember that it was you that introduced us———?" And she paused, with a kind of weary delicacy.
"Not to those snobs that are screaming like frightened peacocks. I beg your pardon—I haven't that on my conscience!"
"Well, you introduced us to Mr. Waterlow and he introduced us to—to his friends," Francie explained, blushing, as if it were a fault, for the
