“What’s the matter with the business?” she asked. Winthrop felt she had put him upon the defensive, but he did not hesitate. “Well,” he said, “there may be some truth in it. But we don’t know that. We do know that there’s a lot of fraud and deceit in it. Now,” he declared warmly, “there’s nothing deceitful about you. You’re fine,” he cried enthusiastically, “you’re big! That boy who was in here told me one story about you that showed--” Vera stopped him sharply. “What do you know of me?” she asked bitterly. “The first time you ever saw me I was in a police court; and this morning--you heard that man threaten to put me in jail--” In turn, by abruptly rising from his chair, Winthrop interrupted her. He pushed the chair out of his way, and, shoving his hands into his trousers’ pockets, began pacing with long, quick strides up and down the room. “What do I care for that?” he cried contemptuously. He tossed the words at her over his shoulder. “I put lots of people in jail myself that are better than I am. Only, they won’t play the game.” He halted, and turned on her. “Now, you’re not playing the game. This is a mean business, taking money from silly girls and old men. You’re too good for that.” He halted at the table and stood facing her. “I’ve got two sisters uptown,” he said. He spoke commandingly, peremptorily. “And tomorrow I am going to take you to see them. And we fellow townsmen,” he smiled at her appealingly, “will talk this over, and we’ll make you come back to your own people.” For a moment the two regarded each other. Then the girl answered firmly, but with a slight hoarseness in her voice, and in a tone hardly louder than a whisper: “You know I can’t do that!” “I don’t!” blustered Winthrop. “Why not?” “Because,” said the girl steadily, “of what I did in Geneva.” As though the answer was the one he had feared, the man exclaimed sharply, rebelliously. “Nonsense!” he cried. “You didn’t know what you were doing. No decent person would consider that.” “They do,” said the girl, “they are the very ones who do. And--it’s been in the papers. Everybody in Geneva knows it. And here too. And whenever I try to get away from this”--she stretched out her hands to include the room about her--“Someone tells! Five times, now.” She leaned forward appealingly, not as though asking pity for herself, but as wishing him to see her point of view. “I didn’t choose this business,” she protested, “I was sort of born in it, and,” she broke out loyally, “I hate to have you call it a mean business; but I can’t get into any other. Whenever I have, some man says, That girl in your front office is a thief.” The restraint she put upon herself, the air of disdain which at all times she had found the most convenient defense, fell from her.