The contentious conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Woolf’s man announcing lunch. They went into the dining room. Maggy was hungry and did justice to an excellent meal. But she refused to drink anything stronger than lemon squash, and when Woolf pressed her for her reason for such abstinence she gave him none. She had seen her mother suffer from alcoholic excess. The smell of spirits always turned her sick. When they were alone Woolf leant towards her. "Now let’s talk," he said. "What do you want me to do for you?" "Nothing," replied Maggy shortly. "Do you dislike me?" She looked at him and away again. "No. That doesn’t mean you’re fascinating. You’re the sort of man who might get round a girl like me if I was fool enough to listen to you. Lexie—that’s my chum—would tell you off at once." "I should think she’s a man-hater." Woolf was beginning to feel a distinct antipathy towards Maggy’s friend. "No, she isn’t. Only men aren’t much in our line. You can see prowling beasts without going to the Zoo." Maggy’s conversational trick of generalizing led away from the point Woolf wanted to press. "You doubt me," he said. "You’d believe in me if I wanted to marry you—" "Oh, cut it! You don’t!" she interjected. "Marriage is an institution for the protection of women who wear flannel petticoats. It doesn’t follow that a girl can’t trust a man because he offers her a lot more than most wives get." "He offers her a lot more because he knows it won’t last for long. I’m practical." "If you were practical you’d listen to my offer." "Oh, I’ll listen." "Well, I’d like to make you really comfortable. You ought to have a smart little place of your own, and dainty things, and money to spend." "It’s as old as the hills. I daresay I’m not the only girl you’ve made that proposition to. Try somebody else. I’m going now." "You mean you won’t think about it?" Maggy was silent for a minute. "Oh, I shall think about it right enough, don’t you worry," she said in an odd voice. "I shall think about it when I’m hungry. I shall think about it when I’m tired. It’s a long way from the theater to King’s Cross Road. I shall think about it when I see the other girls sneering at me because I haven’t got a boy. I shall think about it in the summer time when people go to the sea and take off their clothes, and I shall think of it in the winter when I’d like a few more on. You needn’t think I don’t know that you’re tempting me." Her voice nearly broke. "Then be friends," urged Woolf again. "What’s to prevent you?"