I can't go back. I want to obtain a position
as a journalist. I have been told--But I know no one to help me
at once. No one that I could go to. There is one person--She was
a mistress at my school. If I could write to her--But then, how
could I get her answer?"
"H'mp," said Mr. Hoopdriver, very grave.
"I can't trouble you much more. You have come--you have risked
things--"
"That don't count," said Mr. Hoopdriver. "It's double pay to let
me do it, so to speak."
"It is good of you to say that. Surbiton is so Conventional. I am
resolved to be Unconventional--at any cost. But we are so
hampered. If I could only burgeon out of all that hinders me! I
want to struggle, to take my place in the world. I want to be my
own mistress, to shape my own career. But my stepmother objects
so. She does as she likes herself, and is strict with me to ease
her conscience. And if I go back now, go back owning myself
beaten--" She left the rest to his imagination.
"I see that," agreed Mr. Hoopdriver. He MUST help her. Within his
skull he was doing some intricate arithmetic with five pounds six
and twopence. In some vague way he inferred from all this that
Jessie was trying to escape from an undesirable marriage, but was
saying these things out of modesty. His circle of ideas was so
limited.
"You know, Mr.--I've forgotten your name again."
Mr. Hoopdriver seemed lost in abstraction. "You can't go back of
course, quite like that," he said thoughtfully. His ears waxed
suddenly red and his cheeks flushed.
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