top of the sleeping-porch.

"Why?" he said, suddenly awake, and shortly.

"I worked for him nine years, I.W. I--I know him."

"How?"

"I know him, I.W. She's too good for him."

"How do you know him?"

"I--the girls, I.W. One little girl now, Cissie--I--I hear it all from
my friend Delehanty--sometimes she--she writes to me. I--the models
and--the girls and--and the lady buyers--they--they used to gossip in
the factory and--I--I used to hear about it. I.W., don't! Let go! You
hurt!" His teeth and his hands were very tight, and he hung now over the
side of the bed and toward her.

"He--I.W.--he--"

"He what? He what?"

"He--ain't good enough."

"I say he is!"

"But he--I.W.--she--she's such a baby and he--he--. You hurt!"

"Then tell me, he what?"