He went on muttering. She had great difficulty in hearing all he said.
"At night, at kicking out time, you can hang on, sometimes, to a man
with some cash and get asked to kip with him for the night. You can get
a bed for a shilling a night in many places. It isn't a feather-bed. If
there is no Good Samaritan about you go and lie down in the
Domain--that's the public park, you know--praying to whatever gods there
be that it won't rain. You never get a decent wash, and as soon as the
hotels are open at six o'clock you start again--if you can get the
entrance fee. If you haven't, you cadge round till you have."
He broke off, staring bitterly away from her, his knees drawn up, his
chin resting on them.
"And you told your mother about it--and your father?" she said.
"Yes, every word, and more. Things I wouldn't tell you, because you're
a girl, and I've still some respect for girls. Things that happened in
Rio and Rosario--some of the women there, the rich women--Lord, they're
the devil's own!" He reflected grimly. "I told the Pater a few
things--opened his eyes. He's a publisher--Sunday school prizes and that
sort of thing. Stacks of money! No imagination. Most people have no
imagination. They see things in a detached way. They see them, somehow,
as if they're in print or going on on a stage.
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