Then Birdie, bent on keeping him with her, talked of herself, pouring
out an incoherent story of misfortune: how she had fainted on the stage
one night and incurred the ill-will of the director; how the company
went on and left her without friends and without money; how matters had
gone from bad to worse until she couldn't stand it any longer. She
painted a picture of wronged innocence that would have wrung a sterner
heart than Dan's.
"I know," he said sympathetically. "I've seen what girls are up against
at Clarke's."
Birdie's feverish eyes fastened upon him.
"Have you just come from Clarke's?"
"Yes."
"Is Mac there?"
Dan's face hardened.
"I don't know anything about him."
"No; and you don't want to! If there's one person in this world I hate,
it's Mac Clarke."
"Same here," said Dan, drawn to her by the attraction of a common
antipathy.
"Thinks he can do what he pleases," went on Birdie, bitterly, "with his
good looks and easy ways. He'll have a lot to answer for!"
Dan sat with his fists locked, staring at the floor. A dozen questions
burned on his lips, but he could not bring himself to ask them.
A fierce gust of wind rattled the window, and Birdie cried out in terror.
"You stop being afraid and go to sleep," urged Dan, but she shook her
head.
"I don't dare to! You'd go away, and I'd wake up and go crazy with fear.
I always was like that even when I was a kid, back home. I used to pretty
near die of nights when pa would come in drunk and get to breaking up
things.
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