Margaret Cameron

“ You've been very kind. Thank you—and good night."
"Please!" he begged. "You can't go to the theater alone."
"I prefer to."
"And you've had no dinner. Oh, I quite understand," bitterly, as she made a quick, protesting gesture, "that you would not dine with me. But surely you'll not forbid me, as Sawyer's friend, to see, first, that you have something to eat, and, later, that you join his party safely at the theater?"
"I certainly shall not permit you to pawn—anything—in order that I may dine." Her very lips were stiff. "Anyway, I don't—need any dinner."
"Pardon me, you do need dinner. ”

“ I shall find food—enough."
"Food for thought?" she swiftly questioned, in nervous effort to second his attempt at humor and give the conversation a lighter, more careless aspect. Then, to cover the impulsive suggestion and the lack of poise that it betrayed, she hurried on into further mazes. "Or perhaps you mean thought for food? At any rate," hastily, "I doubt if you would find it sustaining, and I certainly cannot deprive you of your last penny." ”

“ When you've traveled a long way and look back, most of the hard times are like valleys in a picture. They sort o' drop out o' sight, and it's the good times that stand up and show. Now, when you're on your feet again, you won't think much about how it hurt to fall down, but you'll remember that when the two of you only had forty cents for your dinner, he wanted to spend twenty-five or thirty of it on you. ”

“ Jean's lips tightened, and Carrington looked sternly into space. "And it's always seemed to me that one of the worst things for me to bear would be to do a mean thing—a big mean thing—to somebody I—I cared for, you know, and then lose 'em before I could make up for it. That must be one of the hardest things there is—don't you think so?"
"Is it?" asked Jean, in a little, choked voice.
The waitress brought their order and spread the dishes before them.
"You haven't brought me any bread," said Carrington.
"We don't give bread with cakes and syrup. Bread's extra. Want some?" ”

“ And that's the kind o' thing that gives a man courage to fight and win out—and you'll do it, too."
"Perhaps," said Carrington. Nothing in his whole encounter with Jean had so emphasized in his mind their changed relations as did her ready acceptance of the rôle assigned her by this stranger in the bitter little comedy they were playing. He had expected to feel the barrier of her unabated anger, but her use of the situation created by the guileless man across the table convinced him that she deliberately sought to wound him. ”

“ You know that, don't you?" to Carrington.
"Yes," the younger man returned, somewhat grimly; "I know that."
"'Tain't real convenient—being broke," continued the other, sagely smiling. "I guess mebbe you're finding that out, too. But you're both young, and you've got each other; so, after all, what do you care?"
"Obviously," said Jean, with a hard little laugh, "we don't care at all."
"That's right. Anybody can see you don't. You just make a joke of it, and go on having your good times together, anyhow. ”

“ The other's eyes widened in astonishment. "Me! Oh, you mean the steak and biscuits!" He laughed genially. "I guess you never were broke before! You pay that back to some other fellow who's in the same fix some day. That 'll be all right."
When they had parted from John King, Carrington asked:
"And now, dear, shall we go up to the theater and borrow money from Jim Sawyer to get home on?"
"Oh no! I don't want to see people—yet," she said, a little catch in her voice. "Let's—let's go and pawn your watch!" ”

“ My appetite ain't real good to-night, and I'd hate to see good steak like that wasted."
"Oh, take it!" whispered Jean, looking with suddenly misted eyes from his earnest face to Carrington's clouded one; and the younger man, after an instant's hesitation, perceived that acceptance would be the only adequate return for such an offer. ”

“ An immaculately white-clad waitress paused behind them, but at a word from Carrington passed on. We ought to save a tip for the girl," he said.
"I'll go without pie, and we'll give her five cents. Or—I'll tell you! Here's a 'side order of beans with any of the above for five cents.' Now, you order one of 'the above,' I'll take the beans, and we'll give the girl the difference."
"Fie on your mathematics!" she retorted. "All 'the above' are very, very expensive. 'Fried or broiled ham' is the cheapest, and that is twenty cents. Beans would make it twenty-five, and—you see? ”