Well—­’e is a nice leetle fellow—­but ’e is just a leetle fellow—­with a soft ’eart and a soft ’ead.  Not your sort.  And, you’re not ’is sort.  ’E’s frightened of you.  ’E want someone who pat ’is ’ead and let ’im cry on ’is shoulder.  You can’t ’elp ’im—­and you fuss over ’im—­you come ’ere and try to put ’is ’eart affaires in order and it’s no use at all. C’est ridicule, enfin.”

He looked away from her, so that she should not see that this time she had struck home.  She had knocked the weapon out of his hand, and for the moment, in his astonishment and pain, he could not even hate her.  It was true.  He couldn’t help Cosgrave any more.  His strength and ability were, as she said, of no use.  That was what Cosgrave had meant when he had laughed about the adenoids.  He had failed Cosgrave from the moment that Cosgrave had demanded love for himself and human tenderness.  He had no tenderness to give.  He was a hard young man.  He said slowly, and with a curious humility: 

“I used to back him up when he was a kid.  He trusted me too—­and it’s got to be a sort of habit.  I want him to be happy.”

“Because you are so un’appy yourself?”

“I’m all right,” he said stubbornly.  And then he added, still not looking at her.  “Please give him up—­so—­so that he won’t break his heart over it.  I’m not a rich man either, but I’ll make it worth your while.”

She sprang up with a gesture of amused exasperation.

“’Ow stupide you are, my clever friend.  You are like ze old father in ze Dame aux Camellias.  You make me quite cross.  This Rufus—­I can’t give ’im up.  ’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——­”