"
He shook his head firmly.
"No, my dear, I won't. As I came along I said to myself, 'Now,
you'll be asking Maggie for money, and when she says "Yes" you're
not to take it'--and so I'm not going to. I may be a rotter--but I'm
not a rotten rotter."
He clung to his decision with the utmost resolve as though it were
his last plank of respectability.
"I can't believe," he said to her with great solemnity, "that things
can really go wrong. I know too much. It isn't men like me who go
under. No. No."
He saw then her white face and strange grey ghostly eyes as though
her soul had gone somewhere on a visit and the house was untenanted.
He felt again the gulp in his throat. He bent forward, resting his
fat podgy hand on her knee.
"Don't you worry, Maggie dear. I've always noticed that things are
never bad for long. You've still got your old uncle, and you're
young, and there are plenty of fish in the sea . . . there are
indeed. You cheer up! It will be all right soon."
She put her hands on his.
"Oh I'm not--worrying." But as she spoke a strange strangled little
sob had crept unbidden into her throat, choking her.
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