She misinterpreted his silence.
"Well, I'll be going, I guess—" she said, and her smile was intolerable.
"Please don't!" he said, hastily.
She looked at him, incredulous and delighted.
"I don't want to bother you—" she began, but he interrupted, vehemently.
"You're not. Not in the least. . . . Look here! If you can't cook your dinner, won't you come out somewhere with me? I'd appreciate it very much."
"Oh! I couldn't!" she cried.
He knew that she could and would, but that whatever pride she had left required some urging on his part, and he made a creditable attempt to do what she wished. Her perfunctory little denials went down, one after the other.
"All right, then, I will!" she said, resolutely. "It's nice of you to ask me, I must say."
"No; it's nice of you to come," he retorted. "It's very—friendly."
She went back into her room to get ready. That did not take her long, for she had lost interest in herself; she dressed her body as if it had been a doll which must be made neat and presentable for the street. But the magic of the candlelight still wrought its charm; looking at herself in the mirror she remembered how pretty she had been.
As she was adjusting her hat, the lights came on.
"Oh!" she cried, terribly grieved. "Now I can't go!" And she went out into the hall, to forestall his saying that she could very well cook her own meal now. But he was waiting for her, hat in hand, and she decided to say nothing.
"If he really wants me to come . . ." she thought. She could not quite believe that he did, but if he would pretend, so would she. And if he wished to pretend that he was not in all ways superior to her, but was her equal in misfortune, she would do that, too.
He asked her no questions, but nevertheless she told him lies. Sitting across the table from him in the chop house, she grew garrulous and she told him those things about herself which she had often dreamed were true. With now and then a fact; she was
