"How can I?" the girl answered. "What would you have me do? Go down on my knees to him. Cry to him for pity?"
"Not pity," answered the other, "for common honesty. Put it to his honour. He thinks no end of that. That's his religion—the only religion he's got. He's yours, not hers. Hasn't he been dangling about after you for years? Doesn't he owe everything to you? His first start that gave him his chance! How can he get over that? Hasn't he compromised you? Doesn't everybody know of it and take it as a settled thing? What are you going to do if you let him throw you over now? If you let this brainless doll, just because of her white skin"
"Don't, don't," cried the girl. She had risen. "What's the good? Besides, what right have I?"
"What right?" answered the other. "You love him; that's what gives you the right. You were made for him, to be his helpmeet, as the Bible says. Do you think I don't know him? What could she do for him except waste his money on her luxuries and extravagancies? What does her class know about money but how to fling it about and then laugh at the man when it's all spent? What do they know of the aching and sweating that goes to the making of it? What will be his share of the
