'E don't belong to me. I never ask for 'im. 'E
come into my dressing-room and I like 'im for 'is cheek and I give 'im
a good time. Now he is _ennuyeux_. 'E want to marry me and make an
honest woman of me." She patted Stonehouse on the shoulder with so
droll a grimace that he bit his lip to avoid a gust of ribald,
incredible laughter. It was as though by some trick she changed the
whole aspect of things so that they became simply comic--scenes in a
jolly, improper French farce. "And now I 'ope you see 'ow funny that
is. And please take Monsieur Cosgrave away and keep 'im away. I don't
ask no better."
His anger revived against her. And it was a thing apart from Cosgrave
altogether--a bitter personal anger.
"It can't be done like that. You can't take drugs away from a
drug-fiend at one swoop. Let him down gently--treat him as a friend
until he has to go--get him to see reason."
"No," she said. "You don't understand. You 'ave not 'ad my
experience. If I let 'im 'ang on 'e get much worse. If I push 'im
off--poof!--an explosion! Then 'e find a nice leetle girl who is not
like me at all and marry--ver' respectable--and 'ave 'eaps of babies.
That is what 'e want. But it is not my _affaire_--and I won't be
bothered. I tell you 'e is too _ennuyeux_----"
He lashed out at her.
"--and too poor. My God, you're no better than a woman of the streets."
She assented with a certain gravity.
"_C'est bien vrai, ca--bien vrai_.
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