A fragment—"
"That is best of all," said I.
"That stirs the imagination.
Such women one loves forever.
Perfect women one soon gets over.
Worthy ones likewise. Lovely fragments never.''
It was four in the morning.
I had taken Pat home and was on my way back.
The sky was already growing bright.
There was a smell of morning.
I was walking along by the cemetery, past the Cafe International, toward home, when the door of a taximen's pub next the Trades Hall opened and a girl came out.
A little toque, a short, shabby, red coat, high, patent-leather boots—I was almost by when I recognised her—"Lisa!"
"So there you are again!" said she.
"Where have you come from then?" I asked.
She made a movement.
"I've been waiting there awhile. Thought you'd probably be passing.
This is around your time for coming home, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Coming along?" she asked.
I hesitated.
"I can't really."
"You don't need any money," she said hastily.
"It's not that," I answered thoughtlessly. "I have money."
"Ach so," said she bitterly, stepping back a pace.
I took her hand.
"No, Lisa."
Slim and pale she stood in the empty, grey street.
It was so I had met her years ago, when I had been living brutish and alone, without care and without hope.
She had been mistrustful at first, like all these girls; but then, after we had talked together. several times, quite pathetically confiding and devoted.
It had been a curious relationship— sometimes I would not see her for weeks on end, and then suddenly she would be standing somewhere waiting.
We had neither of us anybody or anything at that time—so what little bit of warmth and companionship we could give one another had probably meant more to us than it would have otherwise.
I had not seen her for a long time since I had known Pat, not at all.
"Where have you been all this while, Lisa?"
She gave a shrug.
"What's it, matter?
I just wanted to see you again. Well, I suppose I can push off, of course."
"How are things going, then?"
"Don't worry," said she. "Don't put yourself out."
Her lips were quivering.
She looked half-starved.
"I'll come along with you for a bit," said I.
Her poor, apathetic, pros'titute's face brightened and became almost childlike.
On the way, at one of the cabmen's shelters that are open all night, I bought a feW small things so that she should have something to eat.
She was unwilling at first and only agreed when I explained that I was hungry myself.
But she saw to it that I was not cheated and given inferior stuff.
She was opposed to the half-pound of bacon; she said a quarter would be plenty if we took a couple of small frankfurters as well.
But I stood out for the half, and two tins of sausages.
She lived in an attic room which she had furnished herself.
An oil lamp was on the table, and beside the bed in a bottle a candle.
On the walls hung pictures cut out of newspapers and fastened with drawing-pins.