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"A've got a bit iv a thraytise scribbled down, furbye a wheen o' other wans on han'. A thought mebbe" and his glance rested on the angelface of the sleeping child "well, A thought mebbe it would do hur no harrum fur people till know that hur father well-as ye might say Nat but what she'll hev money in the bank, plaze God.
He showed her how to eat spaghetti without cutting it and pointed out to her various Italian examples of his object lesson; but she soon realized that in spite of his efforts to entertain her, he was really very unhappy. "I've borrowed all the money I can, Angelface," he confessed finally. "Tomorrow's the last day of grace.
I never saw a man who could work like you can. Don't you ever want to stop?" "Don't bother about me, Angelface," he said. "I have to do it. I don't mind. It's better than walking the streets and wondering how I'm going to get along" and he fell to his ideas again. Angela shook her head. Poor Eugene! If ever a man deserved success for working, he certainly did.
When she appeared to be ill he could not help drawing near to her, wanting to know how she was, endeavoring to make her feel better by those sympathetic, emotional demonstrations which he knew meant so much to her. On this particular evening, noting the still drawn agony of her face, he was moved to insist. "What's the matter with you, Angelface, these days? You look so tired. You're not right.
"Why, Angelface," he urged, "how can you go on like this? You know what you say isn't true. What have I done?" "You haven't told your friends that's what you haven't done," she exclaimed between gasps. "They still think you're single. You keep me here hidden in the background as though I were a were a I don't know what! Your friends come and insult me openly to my face. They do! They do!
I know how you've been lying to me. You've been running around with a low, vile wretch of a woman while I have been staying out in Blackwood eating my heart out, that's what you've been doing. Dear Angela! Dear Angelface! Dear Madonna Doloroso! Ha! What have you been calling her, you lying, hypocritical coward! What names have you for her, Hypocrite! Brute! Liar! I know what you've been doing.
There was no trace of it, only sympathy, pity, and a kind of sorrow that she was being so badly treated after all her efforts. "No, you don't," she replied, detecting the hollow ring in what he said. Her voice was sad, and her eyes showed traces of that wistful despair into which she could so readily sink at times. "Why, yes I do, Angelface," he insisted. "What makes you ask?
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