"Can't 'elp it, sir. Tuk a fright there--bad fire--can't remember, please, sir."
"Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair."
Connie did so. Simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair between his slender fingers. He allowed it to ripple through them. He felt its weight and examined its quality.
"You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession."
"I repeat--and I wish you to listen--that in my profession you would rise to eminence. You haven't an idea what it is like, have you?"
"You had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for you to understand."
Connie looked up into the stern and very strange face.
"But you miss a good deal," said Stylites--"yes, a very great deal. Tell me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered Mrs. Warren's establishment."
"I guessed as much--or perhaps Coppenger told me. Machine-work--attic work?--Shop?"
"Yus, sir--in Cheapside, sir--a workshop for cheap clothing, sir."
"I should think not. Let me look at your hand."
He took one of Connie's hands and examined it carefully.
"Little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. They could be made very white, very soft and beautiful. Have you ever considered what a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?"
"You'd know it if you stayed with me. I should dress you in silk and satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings and charming shoes."
"Oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful house with other ladies and gentlemen. _You would_ like that, wouldn't you?"
"Yus, sir--ef I might 'ave Ronald and Giles and father and Father John, and p'rhaps Mrs. Anderson and Mr. George Anderson, along o' me."
"But in that beautiful house you wouldn't have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children you've just mentioned. It's just possible you might have the boy Ronald, but even that is problematical--you'd have to give up the rest."
"Then, sir," said Connie, "I rayther not go, please."
"Do you think that matters?" said Stylites.
"It doesn't matter one whit. Children who come here aren't asked what they'd rather or rather not do, girl--they've got to do what _I_ order."