e grateful,'' he says, straightening, putting back his hair, ''that I have not done worse, any time in the past three months. She ought to know I will do it again, and count it nothing. Do you hear me, Maud? You have seen me at Briar, a sort of gentleman. I make a holiday from gallantry, however, when I come here. Understand?''
I lie, nursing my cheek, my eyes on his, saying nothing. Mrs Sucksby wrings her hands. He takes the cigarette from behind his ear, puts it to his mouth, looks for a match.
''Go on, Mrs Sucksby,'' he says as he does it. ''Tell the rest. As for you, Maud: listen hard, and know at last what your life was lived for.''
''My life was not lived,'' I say in a whisper. ''You have told me, it was a fiction.''
''Well''—he finds a match, and strikes it—''fictions must end. Hear now how yours is to.''
''It has ended already,'' I answer. But his words have made me cautious. My head is thick with liquor, with medicine, with shock; but not so thick that I cannot, now, begin to be fearful of what they will tell me next, how they plan to keep me, what they mean to keep me for ...
Mrs Sucksby sees me grow thoughtful, and nods. ''Now you start to get it,'' she says. ''You are starting to see. I got the lady''s baby and, what''s better, I got the lady''s word.—The word''s the thing, of course. The word''s the thing with the money in—ain''t it?'' She smiles, touches her nose. Then she leans a little closer. ''Like to see it?'' she says, in a different sort of voice. ''Like to see the lady''s word?''