the last hand, and with a cigarette wandered about the room. He glanced into the tidy bedroom and beyond, to where Marie hovered over the stove.
She turned and saw him.
“Come,” she called. “Watch the supper for me while I go down for more beer.”
“But no,” he replied, imitating her tone. “Watch the supper for me while I go down for more beer.”
“I love thee,” she called merrily. “Tell the Herr Doktor I love thee. And here is the pitcher.”
When he returned the supper was already laid in the little kitchen. The cards were put away, and young MacLean and Wallace Hunter were replacing the cover and the lamp on the card-table. Stewart was orating from a pinnacle of proprietorship.
“Exactly,” he was saying, in reply to something gone before; “I used to come here Saturday nights—used to come early and take a bath. Worthington had rented it furnished for a song. Used to sit in a corner and envy Worthington his bathtub, and that lamp there, and decent food, and a bed that didn't suffer from necrosis in the center. Then when he was called home I took it.”
“Girl and all, wasn't it?”
“Girl and all. Old Worth said she was straight, and, by Jove, she is. He came back last fall on his wedding trip—he married a wealthy girl and came to see us. I was out, but Marie was here. There was the deuce to pay.”
He lowered his voice. The men had gathered about him in a group.
“Jealous, eh?” from Hunter.
“Jealous? No! He tried to kiss her and she hit him—said he didn't respect her!”
“It's a curious code of honor,” said Boyer thoughtfully. And indeed to none but Stewart did it seem amusing. This little girl of the streets, driven by God knows what necessity to make her own code and, having made it, living up to it with every fiber of her.
“Bitte zum speisen!” called Marie gayly from her brick stove, and the men trooped out to the kitchen.
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