'There we are,' George said, with false heartiness. 'Let's have a drink. I'm hungry, too, aren't you?'
'A bit,' she said, looking at him as she might look at some strange animal at the Zoo.
'Have the armchair,' George went on, busying himself with the drinks 'It's jolly comfortable, although it looks a bit of a mess.'
'It's all right,' she said. 'I like beds.'
He felt his face burn. He was angry with himself for being selfconscious about the bed, also conscious of the double meaning. He was sure she didn't mean it in that way. It was just his mind.
'Well, so long as you're comfortable,' he said, handing her a glass of beer. 'I'll unpack the sandwiches.'
He kept his back turned to her so that she should not see the furious blush on his face. It took him a minute or so to recover, and when he turned, she was lying on her side, propped up by her arm, one trousered leg hanging over the side of the bed, the other stretched out.
'Take my shoes off,' she said. 'Or I'll make the cover dirty.'
He did so, with clumsy, trembling fingers. But he enjoyed doing it, and he put the shoes on the floor under the bed, feeling an absurd tenderness towards them.
Although the window was wide open, it was hot in the little room. The storm clouds had now blotted out the sun, and it was dark.
'Shall I put the light on?' he asked. 'I think we're going to have some rain.'
'All right. I wish you'd sit down. You're too big for this room, anyway.'
He put the sandwiches on a piece of paper within reach of her hand, turned on the light, and sat down by the window. He was secretly delighted to hear her refer to his size. George was proud of his height and strength.
'Why don't you do something better than selling those silly hooks?' she asked abruptly.
'It suits me for the moment,' George returned, startled by this unexpected reproach; and feeling he ought to offer a better explanation, added, 'It gives me a lot of free time to make plans.'
'There's no money in it, is there?' Cora went on.
'Well, your brother made nine pounds this week,' George said, munching with enjoyment.
'As much as that?' There was a sharp note in her voice.
George studied her. The blue smudges under her eyes, her whitish-grey complexion, her thin, scarlet mouth fascinated him
'Oh yes. It isn't bad, is it?'
She sipped her beer.
'He never tells me anything,' she said in a cold, tight voice. 'We haven't had any money for ages. I don't know how we live. Nine pounds! And he's gone off for the evening.' Her hand closed into a small, cruel fist.
'Of course, he mayn't be so lucky next week,' George went on hurriedly, alarmed that he might have said something wrong. 'You can never tell. There's a lot of luck in the game, you know.'
'I could kill him!' she said viciously. 'Look at me! I've been in this stinking outfit for months. That's all I've got!'
'You look marvellous,' George said, and meant it. 'It suits you.'
'You're all alike,' she returned. 'Do you really think a girl ought to live in a get-up like this?' Her lips twisted. 'I haven't another rag to my name '
Pity stirred in him. 'I say—I'm awfully sorry . . .'
She finished her sandwich, her eyes brooding and bitter.
'So long as Sydney gets what he wants,' she said after a pause, 'he doesn't care a damn about me. He doesn't care what I'll do tonight.' She suddenly shrugged. 'Well, never mind. It's early to worry about that now.' She pushed a wave of hair back from her cheek and then rubbed her temple with one finger. 'Tell me about Frank Kelly.'
'Who?' George flinched away from her.
She hit her knuckle and looked at him over her hand.
'Sydney told me. You and Frank Kelly. At first I didn't believe it, but now I've seen you . . .'
George emptied his glass and got up to refill it. There was a glint in her slate-grey eyes that could have meant anything: curiosity, admiration, desire . . .
'Seen me? I don't understand.'
'You don't have to pretend with me. I'm sick of men without spine. At least, you're a man.'
George slopped a little of the beer on the carpet. A surge of emotion crawled up his hack.
'What do you mean?' he asked, putting the glass on the mantelpiece. He tried to control the huskiness in his voice without success.
'You've lived dangerously. You've killed men, haven't you? That means something to me.'
George faced her. There was nothing in her eyes now. They were like drawn curtains. He stared at her, suddenly afraid.
'Who told you?'
