“Let the child be born in honour--a secret marriage--anything.” She shrank back. “It is dreadful to think of being tied to you,” she moaned, “but--for the child’s sake--for the child’s sake you must be made to remember your promises--you _must_ give the child honour.” She saw his inane mouth opening to the uttering of foolishness. She dropped at his feet, bowing her head to her shame, a wounded broken woman--this little more than child--soon to be the mother of a child. He fidgeted: “Well, you see, my dear girl--it can’t be marriage,” he drawled, “because I’m--er--morally married already--I’m almost engaged--and you know--as a gentleman----” She brushed her hand back over her forehead. The enormity of his idiotcy stung her, and she groaned: “My God!” said she--“what a bleating fool this is!” “Oh yes, call me ridiculous names,” he complained huffily--“but I’m really glad to see that you realize that--er--as a gentleman----” She rose from the floor, and turned upon him: “Then why, in the name of all’s that abominable, did you do this thing?” He licked his lips sullenly, flinching a little before her: “Well, don’t you see--I knew you would see reason, that you would see that it can’t possibly be marriage. And as to providing for you, don’t you see I have so precious little for myself--and I have such awfully expensive tastes----” “God!” she growled, stepping to him, with a sudden urging to strike him--“I could kill you.” And she added hoarsely: “I almost think I will.” “Now, don’t be violent--I never know what to do when a woman is violent. In my family the women are never violent.... You see, Polly----” “Don’t befoul my name by speaking it----” He shrugged his shoulders: “My _dear_ girl, this melodramatic way of life is most repulsive to me--it makes me feel quite nervous and ill,” he added plaintively. “You used to be such a nice girl.” She burst into laughter, miserable laughter, and wrung her hands: “My God, this is awful!” she said. She fell a-brooding. The long silence made the youth uneasy: “Polly, don’t you see----” “Urgh!” She swung round upon him savagely--growling as a leopard might: “Stop that awful bleating. Your voice turns my blood acid--is like some filthy stench to me.... If you value your life, keep that dreadful voice still.... Let me think. In God’s name, let me think.... What to do? _that’s_ the bewildering thing. You, who make me stand a-wonder how I suffered myself to let you touch me--you, with your dreadful idiot’s stare and slack mouth (Mother of God, I too must be a living idiot!)--you have robbed me for months to come even of benefiting by the basest traffic in which a woman may barter herself.” Of a sudden she turned to the door: “Go,” she said hoarsely--“go away--or I shall do you an injury. Quick! I can descend to no more foul shame than I have now known. Go--and, as you love yourself, I say, don’t let me hear that awful bleat again.”