"Your answer: your answer: your answer?" gasped the man huskily.

"This: this: this!" cried Mavis, punctuating each word with a blow from her right hand upon Orgles's face. "This: this: this! It's men like you who drag poor girls down. It's men like you who bring them to horrible things, which they'd never have dreamed of, if it hadn't been for you. It's men like you who make wickedness. You're the worst man I ever met, and I'd rather die in the gutter than be fouled by the touch of a horrible old beast like you."

Her anger blazed up into a final flame. This gave her strength to throw the old man from her; he crashed into the grate; she heard his head strike against the coal-box. Mavis cast one look upon the shapeless and bleeding heap of humanity and left the room.



CHAPTER NINE

AWING

Mavis was again workless, this time with a capital of fifteen shillings and sixpence halfpenny.

Immediately after her interview with Orgles, she had gone to her room to change into her out-of-door clothes.

She disregarded the many questions that several of the girls came upstairs to ask her. She packed up her things as a preliminary to leaving "Dawes'" for good. For many hours she paced the streets, heedless of where her steps led her, her heart seemingly breaking with rage and shame at the insults to which she had been subjected.

About eight, she felt utterly exhausted, and turned into the first shop where she could get refreshment.

This was a confectioner's. The tea and dry biscuits she ordered enabled her to marshal her distracted thoughts into something approaching coherence; she realised that, as she was not going back to "Dawes'," she must find a roof for the night.

She had several times called on her old friend Mrs Ellis; she decided to make for her house. She asked her way to the nearest station, which was Notting Hill; here she took a ticket to Hammersmith and then walked to Kiva Street, where she knocked at the familiar door. A powerful-looking man in corduroy trousers and shirt sleeves opened it.

"Mrs Ellis?" asked Mavis.

"'Orspital."

"I'm very sorry. What's the matter with her?"

"Werry bad."

"I wanted rooms. I used to lodge here."

At this piece of information the man made as if he would close the door.

"Can you tell me where I can get a room for the night?" asked Mavis.

The man by way of reply muttered something about the lady at the end of the row wanting a lodger.

"Which hospital is Mrs Ellis at?" asked Mavis.

By way of reply, the door was slammed in her face. Mavis dragged her weary limbs to the end house in the row, where, in reply to her knock, a tall, pasty-faced, crossed-eyed woman, who carried an empty jug, answered the door.

"I thought you was Mrs Bonus," remarked the woman.

"I want a room for the night. I used to lodge with Mrs Ellis at number 20."

"Did yer? There! I do know yer face. Come inside."

Mavis followed the landlady into a faded and formal little sitting-room, where the latter sat wearily in a chair, still clasping her jug.

"Can I have a room?" asked Mavis.

"I think so. My name's Bilkins."

"Mine is Keeves."

"That's a funny name. I 'ope you ain't married."

"No."

"It's only fools who get married. You jest hear what Mrs Bonus says."

"I'm very tired," said Mavis. "Can you give me anything to eat?"

"I've nothing in the 'ouse, but I'll get you something when I go out. And, if Mrs Bonus comes, ask her to wait, an' say I've jes gone out to get a little Jacky."

Mavis waited in the dark room of the deserted house. Had she not been tired and heartsick, she would have been amused at this strange experience. A quarter of an hour passed without anyone calling, when she heard the sound of a key in the latch, and Mrs Bilkins returned.

"No Mrs Bonus?"

"No one's been."

"It isn't her washing day neither, though it would be late for a lady like 'er to be out all alone. Drink this."

"But it's stout," said Mavis, as Mrs Bilkins lit the gas.

"I call it jacky. A glass will do you good."

Mavis drank some of the liquor and certainly felt the better for it.

"I bought you a quarter of German," declared Mrs Bilkins, as she enrolled a paper parcel.

"You mean German sausage," said Mavis, as she caught sight of the mottled meat, a commodity which her old friend Mr Siggers sold.

"I always call it German," remarked Mrs Bilkins, a trifle huffily.

"But what am I to eat it on?"

"That is funny. I'm always forgetting," said Mrs Bilkins, as she faded from the room.

After some time, she came back with a coarse cloth, a thick plate, a wooden-handled knife, together with a fork made of some pliant material; these she put before Mavis.

The coarse food and more of the stout put fresh heart into the girl. She got a room from Mrs Bilkins for six shillings a week, on the understanding that she did not give much trouble.

"There's only one thing. I suppose you have a bath of some sort?" said Mavis.

"That is funny," said Mrs Bilkins. "I've never been asked such a thing in my life."

"Don't you wash?"

"In penny pieces; a bit at a time."

"But never all over, properly?"

"You are funny. Why, three years ago, I had the rheumatics; then I was covered all over with flannel. Now I don't know which is flannel and which is skin."

It was arranged, however, that, if Mrs Bilkins could not borrow a bath from a neighbour in the morning, she would bring Mavis her washing-tin, which would answer the same purpose. Mavis slept soundly in a fairly clean room, her wanderings after leaving "Dawes'" having tired her out.

The next morning she came down to a breakfast of which the tea was smoked and her solitary egg was scarcely warm; when she opened this latter, the yolk successfully eluded the efforts of her spoon to get it out. It may be said at once that this meal was a piece with the entire conduct of Mrs Bilkins's house, she being a unit in the vast army of incapable, stupid women who, sooner or later, drift into the letting of lodgings as a means of livelihood. After breakfast, Mavis wrote to "Dawes'," requesting that her boxes might be sent to her present address. Now that the sun of cold reason, which reaches its zenith in the early morning, illumined the crowded events of yesterday, Mavis was concerned for the consequences of the violence she had offered Orgles. Her faith in human justice had been much disturbed; she feared that Orgles, moved with a desire for vengeance, would represent her as the aggressor, himself as the victim of an unprovoked assault: any moment she feared to find herself in the clutches of the law. She was too dispirited to look for work; to ease the tension in her mind, she tried to discover what had become of Mrs Ellis, but without success.

About five, two letters came for her, one of these being, as the envelope told her, from "Dawes'." She fearfully opened it. To her great surprise, the letter regretted the firm's inability to continue her temporary engagement; it enclosed a month's salary in place of the usual notice, together with the money due to her for her present month's services; it concluded by stating that her conduct had given great satisfaction to the firm, and that it would gladly give her further testimonials should she be in want of these to secure another place.

Mavis could hardly believe her good fortune; she read and re-read the letter; she gratefully scanned the writing on the cheque. The other letter attracted her attention, which proved to be from Miss Meakin. This told her that, if Mavis could play the piano and wanted temporary work, she could get this by at once applying at "Poulter's" Dancing Academy in Devonport Road, Shepherd's Bush, which Miss Meakin attended; it also said that the writer would be at the academy soon after nine, when she would tell Mavis how she had found her address. Mavis put on her hat and cloak with a light heart. The fact of escaping from the debasing drudgery of "Dawes'," of being the possessor of a cheque for L2. 12S., the prospect of securing work, if only of a temporary nature, made her forget her loneliness and her previous struggles to wrest a pittance from a world indifferent to her needs. After all, there was One who cared: the contents of the two letters which she had just received proved that; the cheque and promise of employment were in the nature of compensation for the hurt to her pride which she had suffered yesterday at Orgles's hands. She thought her sudden good fortune justified a trifling extravagance; she had no fancy for Mrs Bilkins's smoked tea, so she turned into the first teashop she came to, where she revelled in scrambled eggs, strong tea, bread, butter, and jam. She ate these unaccustomed delicacies slowly, deliberately, hugely enjoying the savour of each mouthful. She then walked in the direction of Shepherd's Bush.

The garish vulgarity of the Goldhawk Road, along which a procession of electric trams rushed and whizzed, took away her breath. Devonport Road, in which she was to find the academy, was such a quiet, retiring little turning that Mavis could hardly believe it joined a noisy thoroughfare like the Goldhawk Road. "Poulter's" Dancing Academy took some finding; she had no number to guide her, so she asked the two or three people she met if they could direct her to this institution, but not one of them appeared to know anything about it. She walked along the road, keeping a sharp look-out on either side for door plate or lamp, which she believed was commonly the out-ward and visible sign of the establishment she sought. A semicircle of brightly illuminated coloured glass, placed above an entrance gate, attracted her, but nearer inspection proved this to be an advertisement of "painless dentistry."

Further down the road, a gaily coloured lamp caught her eye, the lettering on which read "Gellybrand's Select Dancing Academy. Terms to suit all pockets. Inquire within." Mavis was certain that the name of which she was in search was none other than Poulter: she looked about her and wondered if it were possible for such a down-at-heel neighbourhood to support more than one dancing academy. The glow of a light in an open doorway on the other side of the way next attracted her. She crossed, to find this light came from a lamp which was held aloft by a draped female statue standing just inside the door: beyond the statue was another door, the upper part of which was of glass, the lower of wood. Written upon the glass in staring gilt letters was the name "Poulter's."

Mavis walked up the steps to the front door. Her heart sank as she noticed that the plaster had worn away and was broken from various parts of the house, which had a shabby and dilapidated appearance. Mavis set going a bell, which could be heard faint-heartedly tinkling in the distance; she employed the time that she was kept waiting in examining the statue. This was as depressing as the house: its smile was cracked in the middle; a rude boy had reddened the lady's nose; its dress cried aloud for some kindly disposed person to give it a fresh coat of paint. Presently, a drab of a little servant opened the inner door.

"'Pectus?" said the girl, directly she caught sight of Mavis.

"I want to see Mr Poulter."

"Not a 'pectus?"

Mavis repeated her request.

"Come insoide. 'E's 'avin' 'is tea."

Mavis followed the drab along a passage: at the end of this was a door, above which was inscribed "Ladies' Cloak Room."

Opening this, the drab said mechanically:

"Walk insoide. What nime?"

"Miss Keeves. I've come from Miss Meakin."

Mavis walked inside, to find herself in a smallish room, the walls of which were decorated with rows of hooks, beneath each of which was a number printed in large type. There were a cracked toilette glass, a few rickety chairs, a heavy smell of stale toilet powder, and little else. A few moments later, a little, shrivelled-up, elderly woman walked into the room with a slight hobble. Mavis noticed her narrow, stooping shoulders, which, although the weather was warm, were covered by a shawl; her long upper lip; her snub nose; also that she wore her right arm in a sling.

"Was you waiting to see Mr Poulter particular?" she asked.

"I was rather."

"'E's 'avin' 'is tea, and—and you know what these artists are at meal-time," said the little woman confidentially.

"I'm in no hurry. I can easily wait," said Mavis.

"Was you come about 'privates'?" asked the little woman wistfully.

"Privates?"

"I mean private lessons. 'Poulter's' always calls 'em 'privates.'"

"I heard you were in want of an accompanist. I came to offer my services."

"It won't be for long; my fingers is nearly healed of the chilblains."

"Anything is better than nothing," remarked Mavis.

"Would you mind if I heard you play?"

"Not at all."

"My word might go some way with Mr Poulter. See?" said the little woman confidentially.

"It's very good of you," remarked Mavis, who was beginning to like the little, shrivelled-up old thing.

The woman with the chilblains led the way to a door in a corner of the cloak-room, which Mavis had not noticed before. Mavis followed her down an inclined, boarded-in gangway, decorated with coloured presentation plates from long forgotten Christmas numbers of popular weeklies, to the ballroom, which was a portable iron building erected in the back garden of the academy. At the further end was a platform, which supported a forlorn-looking piano.

"Be careful not to slip," said Mavis's conductor.

"Thank you, I won't," replied Mavis, who was not in the least danger of losing her foothold.

"'E invented it."

"Invented what?"

"This floor wax. It's Poulter's patent," the little woman reverently informed Mavis.

"He must be rather clever!"

"Rather clever! It's plain you've never met 'im."

Mavis sat down to the piano, but did not do herself justice over the first waltz she played, owing to the faultiness of the instrument. As with many other old pianos, the keys were small; also, the treble was weak and three notes were broken in the bass.

"Try again!" said the little woman dubiously.

By this time, Mavis had mastered the piano's peculiarities; she played her second waltz resonantly, rhythmically.

"I think you're up to 'Poulter's,'" said the little woman critically, when Mavis had finished. "And what about terms?"

"What about them?" asked Mavis pleasantly.

"It's a great honour being connected with 'Poulter's,'" the little woman hazarded.

"No doubt."

"And what with the undercutting and all, on the part of those who ought to know better, it makes it 'ard to make both ends meet."

"I'm sure it does."

"But there! We'll leave it to Mr Poulter."

"That's the best thing to do."

"I'll see if Mr Poulter's finished 'is tea."

Mavis followed the woman across the ballroom, and back to the cloak-room, where she was left alone for quite five minutes. Then the little woman put her head into the room to say:

"Mr Poulter won't be many minutes now. 'E's come to the cake," at which Mavis smiled as she said:

"I can wait any time."

Mavis already quite liked the odd little woman. She waited some minutes longer, till at last her friend excitedly re-entered to say, in the manner of one conveying information of much moment:

"Mr Poulter is reelly coming on purpose to see you."

Mavis nerved herself for the ordeal of meeting the dancing-master.



CHAPTER TEN

"POULTER'S"

When, a few moments later, Mr Poulter came into the room, his appearance surprised Mavis. She expected and braced herself to interview a person with greasy, flowing locks and theatrical manners; instead, she saw a well-preserved old man with one of the finest faces she had ever seen. He had a ruddy complexion, soft, kindly blue eyes, and a noble head covered with snow-white hair. His presence seemed to infect the coarsely scented air of the room with an atmosphere of refinement and unaffected kindliness. He was shabbily dressed. Directly Mavis saw him, she longed to throw her arms about his neck, to kiss him on the forehead.

He bowed to Mavis before saying:

"Have you 'ad your tea?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied.

"Miss Nippett has told me of your errand."

"She has also heard me play."

"It is now only a question of terms," said Mr Poulter gently.

"Quite so."

"The last wish of 'Poulter's' is to appear ungenerous, but, with remorseless competition in the Bush," here Mr Poulter's kindly face hardened, "everyone suffers."

"The Bush?" queried Mavis.

"Shepherd's Bush," explained Poulter. "Many of 'Poulter's' clients, who are behindhand with their cheques for family tuition, have made payment with the commodities which they happen to retail," remarked Poulter. "Assuming that you were willing, you might care to take whole or part payment in some of these."

Mavis was sorry, but money was a necessity to her.

"I quite understand," said Poulter sympathetically. "On 'Ordinary Days,' 'Poulter's' would require you from eleven in the morning till—" Here he turned inquiringly to Miss Nippett.

"Carriages at ten thirty," put in Miss Nippett promptly.

"Yes, carriages at ten thirty," repeated Mr Poulter, who took a simple enjoyment in the reference to the association of vehicles, however imaginary, with the academy.

"And on 'Third Saturdays'?" said Poulter, as he again turned to Miss Nippett, as if seeking information.

"Special and Select Assembly at the Athenaeum, including the Godolphin String Band and light refreshments," declared Miss Nippett.

"Ah! carriages at twelve," said Mr Poulter with relish. "That means your getting home very late."

"I don't mind. I don't live far from here. I can walk."

It was ultimately arranged that Mavis should be supplied with dinner, tea, and supper, and receive a shilling a day for five days of the week; on Saturdays, in consideration of her staying late, she was to get an extra shilling.

Mention was made with some pride of infrequent "Long Nights," which were also held at the Athenaeum, when dancing was kept up till three in the morning; but, as Miss Nippett's chilblains would probably be cured long before the date fixed for the next Terpsichorean Festival, as these special dances were called, no arrangement was made in respect of these.

"It is usual for 'Poulter's' to ask for references," declared Mr Poulter. "But needless to say that one who has pioneered 'Poulter's' into the forefront of such institutions can read character at a glance."

Mavis thanked him for his confidence, but said that she could supply him with testimonials from her last two employers. Mr Poulter would not dream of troubling her, and asked Mavis if she could commence her duties on that evening. Upon Mavis saying that she could, Mr Poulter looked at his watch and said:

"It still wants an hour till 'Poulter's' evening classes commence. As you've joined 'Poulter's' staff, it might be as well if you shared one of the privileges of your position."

This particular privilege consisted of Mavis's being taken downstairs to Mr Poulter's private sitting-room. This was a homely apartment furnished with much-worn horsehair furniture, together with many framed and unframed flashlight photographs of various "Terpsichorean Festivals," in all of which, conspicuous in the foreground, was Mr Poulter, wearing a big white rosette on the lapel of his evening coat.

"Smoke if you want to, won't you?" said Mavis.

"Thank you," replied Mr Poulter, "but I only smoke after 'Poulter's' is closed. It might give 'Poulter's' a bad reputation if the young lady pupils went 'ome smelling of smoke."

"'E thinks of everything," declared Miss Nippett admiringly.

"'Poulter's' is not deficient in worldly wisdom," remarked the dancing-master with subdued pride.

"I'm sure of that," said Mavis hypocritically, as she looked at the simple face of the kindly old man.

"Suppose we have a game of cards," suggested Mr Poulter presently.

"Promise you won't cheat," said Mavis.

Mr Poulter laughed uneasily before saying:

"'Poulter's' would not occupy its present position if it were not for its straightforward dealing. What shall we play?"

Mavis, feeling light-hearted, was on the point of saying "Snap," but feared that the fact of her suggesting such a frivolous game might set her down as an improper person in the eyes of "Poulter's."

"Do you know 'Casino'?" asked Mr Poulter.

"I'm afraid I don't," replied Mavis.

"A grand old game; we must teach you another time. What do you say to 'Old Maid'?"

They played "Old Maid" deliberately, solemnly. After a time, Mavis had a strong suspicion that Miss Nippett was cheating in order that Mr Poulter might win; also, that Mr Poulter was manoeuvring the cards so that Mavis might not be declared "old maid."

This belief was strengthened when Mavis heard Miss Nippett say to Mr Poulter, at the close of the game:

"She ought to 'ave been 'old maid.'"

"I know, I know," replied Mr Poulter. "But I want her first evening at 'Poulter's' to be quite 'appy and 'omelike."

"Did you easily find 'Poulter's'?" asked Mr Poulter presently of Mavis.

"I had no number, so I had to ask," she replied.

"Then, of course, you were directed at once," suggested Mr Poulter eagerly.

Mavis's consideration for the old man's feelings was such that she thought a fib was justified.

"Yes," she said.

Mr Poulter's eyes lit with happiness.

"That's the advantage of being connected with 'Poulter's,'" he said. "You'll find it a great help to you as you make your way in the world."

"I'm sure of it," remarked Mavis, with all the conviction she could muster. After a few moments' silence, she said:

"There's another dancing academy on the other side of the road."

Mavis was surprised to see Mr Poulter's gentle expression at once change to a look of intense anger.

"Gellybrand's! Gellybrand's! The scoundrel!" cried Mr Poulter, as he thumped his fist upon the table.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," said Mavis.

"What? You haven't heard of the rivalry between mushroom Gellybrand's and old-established 'Poulter's'?" exclaimed Mr Poulter.

Mavis did not know what to say.

"Some people is ignorant!" commented Miss Nippett at her silence.

"Gellybrand is the greatest scoundrel and blackleg in the history of dancing," continued Poulter. Then, as if to clinch the matter, he added, "Poulter's 'Special and Select' is two shillings, with carriages at eleven. Gellybrand's is one and six, with carriages at eleven thirty."

"Disgraceful!" commented Mavis, who was anxious to soothe Poulter's ruffled sensibilities.

"That is not all. Poulter's oranges, when light refreshments are supplied, are cut in eights; Gellybrand's"—here the old man's voice quivered with indignation—"oranges are cut in sixes."

"An unfair advantage," remarked Mavis.

"That's not all. Gellybrand once declared that I had actually stooped so low as to kiss a married pupil."

"Disgraceful!" said Mavis gravely.

"Of course, the statement carried its own refutation, as no gentleman could ever demean himself so much as to kiss another gentleman's wife."

"That's what I say," cried Miss Nippett.

"But Gellybrand foully libelled me," cried Mr Poulter, with another outburst of anger, "when he stated that I only paid one and fourpence a pound for my tea."

This last recollection so troubled Mr Poulter that Miss Nippett suggested that it was time for him to go and dress. As he left the room, he said to Mavis:

"Pray never mention Gellybrand's name in my presence. If I weren't an artiste, I wouldn't mind; as it is, I'm all of a tremble."

Mavis promised that she would not, at which the old man's face wore its usual kindly expression. When he was gone, Miss Nippett exclaimed:

"Oh, why ever did you?"

"How was I to know?" Mavis asked.

"I thought everyone knew. Don't, whatever you do, don't again. It makes him angrier than he was when once the band eat up all the light refreshments."

"He's a very charming man," remarked Mavis.

"But his brains! It's his brains that fetches me."

"Really!"

"In addition to 'Poulter's Patent Floor Wax,' he's invented the 'Clacton Schottische,' the 'Ramsgate Galop,' and the 'Coronation Quadrilles.'"

"He must be clever."

"Of course; he's on the grand council of the 'B.A.T.D.'"

"What is that?"

"What? You don't know what 'B.A.T.D.' is?" cried Miss Nippett in astonishment.

"I'm afraid I don't," replied Mavis.

"You'll be saying you don't know the Old Bailey next."

"I don't. But I know a lot of people who should."

"Don't send 'em to 'Poulter's,'" said Miss Nippett. "There's enough already who're be'ind with their accounts."

A few minutes later, Mr Poulter entered the room, wearing evening dress, dancing pumps, and a tawdry-looking insignia in his coat.

"That's the 'B.A.T.D.,' Grand Council Badge," Miss Nippett informed Mavis.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Mavis, who felt that her hypocrisy was justified by the pleasure it gave kindly Mr Poulter.

"Say we enjoy a whiff of fresh air before commencing our labours," suggested Mr Poulter.

Upon Mavis and Miss Nippett rising as if to fall in with his suggestion, Mr Poulter went before them, up the stairs, past the "Ladies' Cloak Room," along the passage to the front door.

As Miss Nippett and Mavis followed the dancing-master, the former said, referring to Mr Poulter:

"'E once took the 'Olborn Town 'all for an 'All Night,' didn't you, Mr Poulter?"

"The night the 'Clacton Schottische' was danced for the first time," replied Poulter.

"And what do you think the refreshments was contracted at a 'ead?" asked Miss Nippett.

"Give it up," replied Mavis.

"Why, no less than three shillin's, wasn't it, Mr Poulter?"

"True enough," replied Mr Poulter. "But I must admit the attendants did look 'old-fashioned' at you, if you 'ad two glasses of claret-cup running."

By this time, they were outside of the front door, where Mr Poulter paused, as if designing not to go any further into the night air, which, for the time of year, was close and warm.

"I don't want to give the 'Bush' the chance of saying Poulter never shows himself outside the walls of the academy," remarked the dancing-master complacently.

"There's so much jealousy of fame in the 'Bush,'" added Miss Nippett.

As they stood on the steps, Mavis could not help noticing that whereas Miss Nippett had only eyes for Mr Poulter, the latter's attention was fixed on the plaster figure of "Turpsichor" to the exclusion of everything else.

"A classic figure"—(he pronounced it "clarsic")—"gives a distinction to an academy, which is denied to mongrel and mushroom imitations," he presently remarked.

"Quite so," assented Mavis.

"She has been with 'Poulter's' fifteen years."

"Almost as long as I have," put in Miss Nippett.

"The figure?" asked Mavis.

"The statue 'Turpsichor,'" corrected Mr Poulter.

"Turpsichor," in common with other down-at-heel people, had something of a history. She was originally the plaster cast model of a marble statue ordered by a sorrowing widow to grace the last resting-place of the dear departed, a widow, whose first transports of grief were as extravagant as the order she gave to the monumental mason. But when the time came for the statue to be carved, and a further deposit to be paid, the widow had been fascinated by a man whom she had met in a 'bus, when on her way to visit the cemetery where her husband was interred. She was now loth to bear the cost of the statue and, as she had changed her address, she took no notice of the mason's repeated applications. "Turpsichor" had then been sold cheap to a man who had started a tea-garden, in the vain hope of reviving the glories of those forgotten institutions; when he had drifted into bankruptcy, she had been knocked down for a song to a second-hand shop, where she had been bought for next to nothing by Mr Poulter as "the very thing." Now she stood in the entrance hall of the academy, where, it can truthfully be said, that no heathen goddess received so much adoration and admiration as was bestowed on "Turpsichor" by Mr Poulter and Miss Nippett. To these simple souls, it was the finest work of art to be found anywhere in the world, while the younger amongst the pupils regarded the forlorn statue with considerable awe.

When a move was made to the ballroom, Miss Nippett whispered to Mavis:

"If Mr Poulter wins the great cotillion prize competition 'e's goin' in for, I 'ope to stand 'Turpsichor' a clean, and a new coat of paint."

When all three had waited in the ballroom some minutes, the pupils for the night classes straggled in, the "gentlemen" bringing their dancing shoes in their overcoat pockets, the "ladies" theirs, either in net-bags or wrapped in odd pieces of brown paper. These "ladies" were much of a type, being either shop-girls or lady clerks, with a sprinkling of maid-servants and board school teachers. They were pale-faced, hard-working, over-dressed young women who read Marie Corelli, and considered her "deep"; who had one adjective with which to express appreciation of things, this "artistic"; anything they condemned was spoken of as "awful"; one and all liked to be considered what they called "up-to-date." Marriage they desired more than anything else in the world, not so much that they wished to live in an atmosphere of affection, but because they believed that state promised something of a respite from their never-ending, poorly recompensed toil. The "gentlemen" were mostly shopmen or weekly paid clerks with social aspirations; they carried silver cigarette cases, which they exhibited on the least provocation.

Mavis played, whilst Mr Poulter put the pupils through their steps. She had no eyes for the dancers, these not interesting her; her attention, of which she had plenty to spare, was fixed upon the kindly, beaming face and the agile limbs of Mr Poulter. It was a pleasure to watch him, he so thoroughly enjoyed his work; he could not take enough pains to instruct his pupils in the steps that they should take. Miss Nippett sat beside Mavis. Presently, in a few minutes' interval between the dances, the former said:

"Don't you ever be a fool an' teach dancing."

"Why 'a fool'?" asked Mavis.

"Look at me an' the way I 'obble; it's all the fault of teaching the 'gentlemen.'"

"Indeed!"

"The 'gentlemen' is such clumsy fellers; they always tread on my right foot. I tried wearing flannel, but they come down on it jess the same, 'arder if anything."

Soon after nine, Miss Meakin came in, having travelled from "Dawes'" with all dispatch by the "Tube." She warmly greeted Mavis, congratulated her on getting employment at "Poulter's," and told her that, after she (Mavis) had left "Dawes'," the partners had made every inquiry into her habit of life. Miss Meakin had been summoned to one of the partner's rooms to say what she knew of the subject, and had sat near a table on which was lying Mavis's letter; she had made a note of the address, to write to her directly she was able to do so.

"We must have a long talk, dear; but not to-night."

"Why not to-night?"

"Mr Napper, my 'boy,' will be waiting for me outside."

"Bring him in and introduce me."

"He'd never forgive me if I did. He's all brains, dear, and would never overlook it, if I insisted on his entering a dancing academy."

"What is he?"

"He's a lawyer. But his cleverness is altogether outside of that."

"A barrister?"

"Scarcely."

"A solicitor?"

"Not yet. He works for one."

After the pupils had gone, Mavis, pressed by Mr Poulter, stayed to a supper that consisted of bread, cheese, and cocoa.

When this was over, Mr Poulter said:

"I don't know of what religious persuasion you may be, but would you be offended if I asked you to stay for family prayers?"

"I like you for asking me," declared Mavis.

"I am overjoyed at a real young lady like you caring to stay," replied Poulter.

Mr Poulter read a chapter from the Bible. He then offered up a brief extempore prayer. He prayed for Miss Nippett, for Mavis, for past and present pupils, the world at large. The Lord's Prayer, in which the two women joined, ended the devotions.

When Miss Nippett had put on her goloshes, bonnet, and cloak, and Mavis her things, Mr Poulter accompanied them to the door.

"I live in the 'Bush': where do you?" asked Miss Nippett of Mavis.

"Kiva Road, Hammersmith."

"Then we go different ways. Good night, Mr Poulter; good night, Miss Keeves."

Mavis wished her and Mr Poulter good night. The two women walked together to the gate, when Miss Nippett hobbled off to the left.

As Mavis turned to the right, she glanced at Mr Poulter, who was still standing on the steps; he was gazing raptly at "Turpsichor." A few minutes later, when she encountered the insolent glances of the painted foreign women who flock in the Goldhawk Road, Mavis found it hard to believe that they and Mr Poulter inhabited the same world.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

MAVIS'S PRAYER

The next morning, Mavis was awakened by Mrs Bilkins bringing her a cup of tea.

"Bless my soul!" cried Mrs Bilkins, almost spilling the tea in her agitation.

"What's the matter?"

"You've got your window open. It's a wonder you're alive."

"I always sleep with it open."

"Well, you are funny. What will you do next?"

Mrs Bilkins sat on the bed, seemingly inclined to gossip. Mavis did not discourage her; for some reason, the landlady was looking different from when she had seen her the day before. Curious to discover the cause, she let the woman ramble on unchecked about the way in which "her son, a Bilkins," had "demeaned himself" by marrying a servant.

Then it occurred to Mavis that the way in which Mrs Bilkins had done her hair was the reason for her changed appearance: she had arranged it in imitation of the manner in which Mavis wore hers.

Presently, Mavis told the woman how she had got temporary employment, and added:

"But it's work I'm quite unaccustomed to."

To her surprise, Mrs Bilkins bridled up.

"Just like me. I ain't used to letting lodgin's; far from it."

"Indeed!" remarked Mavis.

"Oh, well, if you don't believe me, ask Mrs Bonus."

When Mavis came downstairs, she found Mrs Bilkins busy trimming a hat. The next day, the landlady wore it about the house, when Mavis was surprised and amused to see that it was a shabby imitation of her own. At first, she could scarcely believe such emulation to be possible, but when, after buying a necessary pair of gloves, she found that her landlady had got a new pair for herself, she saw that Mrs Bilkins was possessed by jealousy of her lodger. This belief was strengthened by the fact of Mrs Bilkins making copious reference to past prosperity directly Mavis made innocent mention of former events in her life which pointed to her having been better off than she was at present. It was fourteen days before Miss Nippett's chilblains were sufficiently healed to allow her to take her place at "Poulter's" piano. During this time, Mavis became on friendly terms with the dancing-master; the more she saw of him, the more he became endeared to the lonely girl. Apart from his vanity where the academy was concerned (a harmless enough foible, which saddened quite as much as it amused Mavis), he was the simplest, the kindliest of men. He was very poor; although his poverty largely arose from the advantage which pupils and parents took of his boundless good nature, Mavis did not hear him utter a complaining word of a living soul, always excepting Gellybrand.

She learned how Mr Poulter had been happily married, although childless; also, that his wife had died of a chill caught by walking home, insufficiently clad, from an "All Night" in bleak weather. For all the pain that her absence caused in his life, he looked bravely, confidently forward (sometimes with tears in his eyes) to when they should meet again, this time never to part. When the evenings were fine, Mr Poulter would take Miss Nippett and Mavis for a ride on a tram car, returning in time for the night classes. Upon one of these excursions, someone in the tram car pointed out Mr Poulter to a friend in the hearing of the dancing-master; this was enough to make Mr Poulter radiantly happy for the best part of two days, much to Mavis's delight.

Another human trait in the proprietor of "Poulter's" was that he was insensible to Miss Nippett's loyalty to the academy, he taking her devotion as a matter of course.

Miss Nippett and Mavis, also, became friends; the latter was moved by the touching faith which the shrivelled-up little accompanist had in the academy, its future, and, above all, its proprietor. If the rivalry between "Poulter's" and "Gellybrand's" could have been decided by an appeal to force, Miss Nippett would have been found in the van of "Poulter's" adherents, firmly imbued with the righteousness of her cause. She lived in Blomfield Road, Shepherd's Bush, a depressing, blind little street, at the end of which was a hoarding; this latter shut off a view of a seemingly boundless brickfield. Miss Nippett rented a top back room at number 19, where, on one Sunday afternoon, Mavis, being previously invited, went to tea. The little room was neat and clean; tea, a substantial meal, was served on the big black box which stood at the foot of Miss Nippett's bed. After tea, Miss Nippett showed, with much pride, her little treasures, which were chiefly pitiful odds and ends picked up upon infrequent excursions to Isle of Thanet watering-places. Her devotion to these brought a lump to Mavis's throat. After the girl had inspected and admired these household gods, she was taken to the window, in order to see the view, now lit by a brilliant full moon. Mavis looked over a desert of waste land and brickfield to a hideous, forbidding-looking structure in the distance.

"Ain't it beautiful?" asked Miss Nippett.

"Y—yes," assented Mavis.

"Almost as good as reel country."

"Almost."

"Why, I declare, you can see the 'Scrubbs': you are in luck to-day."

"What's the 'Scrubbs'?"

"The 'Scrubbs' prison. Oh, I say, you are ignorant!"

"I'm afraid I am," sighed Mavis.

"It ain't often you can see the 'Scrubbs' at this time of year 'cause of the fog," remarked Miss Nippett, whose eyes were still glued to the window.

Presently, when she drew the curtains, she looked contentedly round the little room before saying:

"I often think that, after all, there's no place like a good 'ome."

"If you're lucky enough to have one," assented Mavis heartfully.

"Sometimes I like it even better than 'Poulter's'; you know, when you've got a waltz in your 'ead, and 'ate it, and 'ave to play it over and over again. But every bit of this here furniture is mine and paid for."

"Really?" asked Mavis, feigning surprise to please her friend.

"I can show you the receipts if you don't b'lieve me."

"But I do."

"Being at the academy makes me business-like. But there! if I haven't forgotten something; reelly I 'ave."

"What?"

"One moment: let me bring the light."

Miss Nippett led the way to the landing immediately outside her door, where she unlocked a roomy cupboard, crammed to its utmost capacity with odds and ends of cheap feminine adornment. Mangy evening boas, flimsy wraps, down-at-heel dancing shoes, handkerchiefs, gloves, powder puffs, and odd bits of ribbon were jumbled together in heaped disorder.

"D'ye know what they is?" asked Miss Nippett.

"Give it up," replied Mavis.

"They're the 'overs.'"

"What on earth's that?"

"Oh, I say, you are ignorant; reelly you are. 'Overs' is what's left and unclaimed at 'Poulter's.'"

"Really?"

"They're my 'perk,'" which last word Mavis took to be an abbreviation of perquisite.

Mavis looked curiously at the heap of forgotten finery: had she lately lived among more prosperous surroundings, she might have glanced contemptuously at this collection of tawdry flummery; but, if her sordid struggles to make both ends meet had taught her nothing else, they had given her a keen sympathy for all forms of endeavour, however humble, to escape, if only for a crowded hour, from the debasing round of uncongenial toil. Consequently, she looked with soft eyes at the pile of unclaimed "overs." None knew better than she of the sacrifices that the purchase of the cheapest of these entailed; her observation had told her with what pride they were worn, the infinite pleasure which their possession bestowed on their owner. The cupboard's contents seemed to Mavis to be eloquent of pinched meals, walks in bad weather to save 'bus fares, mean economies bravely borne; to cry aloud of pitiful efforts made by young hearts to secure a brief taste of their rightful heritage of joy, of which they had been dispossessed.

Mavis turned away with a sigh.

Presently, in the cosiness of the bed-sitting room, Miss Nippett became confidential.

"Are you ambitious?" she asked.

"I don't know," replied Mavis.

"I mean REELLY ambitious."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, like I am. I'm reelly ambitious."

"Indeed!"

"I want to be a partner in 'Poulter's.' Not for the money, you understand, but for the honour. If I was made a partner, I'd die 'appy. See?"

"I don't see why you shouldn't be some day. Mr Poulter might reward you that way for your years of faithful service."

As Mavis walked back to Kiva Street, she asked herself the question that Miss Nippett had asked her, "Was she ambitious?"

Now, her chief concern was to earn her daily bread. It was not so very long ago that her ambition was in some way bound up with the romantic fancies which she was then so fond of weaving. Now, the prospect of again having to fight for the privilege of bread-winning drove all thought from her mind beyond this one desire—to keep afloat without exhibiting signals of distress to the Devitts.

Three days before Mavis left "Poulter's," she assisted at a Third Saturday Night which was held, as usual, on that Saturday of the month at the Athenaeum, Shepherd's Bush.

Mavis, dressed in her one evening frock and wearing her few trinkets, went to the Athenaeum an hour before the public was expected, in order to rehearse with the "Godolphin Band," which was always engaged for these occasions. She was in some trepidation at having to accompany professional musicians on the piano; she hoped that they would not find fault with her playing. When she got to the hall, she found Mr Poulter already there in evening dress, vainly striving to conceal his excitement.

"Aren't you nervous?" he asked.

"I am rather," she replied, as she took off her coat.

"Oh, my dear, may an old man say how beautiful you look?"

"Why not?" asked Mavis, whose eyes were shining at the unexpectedness of the compliment.

Mr Poulter looked at her intently for a few moments before saying:

"Haven't you a father or mother?"

Mavis shook her head.

"Neither kith nor kin?"

"I'm all alone in the world," she replied sadly.

A sorrowful expression came over the old man's face as he said with much fervour:

"God bless you, my dear. May He keep you from pain and all harm."

Mavis was seized with a sudden impulse. She took the white head in her warm arms and kissed him fondly on the forehead.

Mr Poulter turned away and pretended to have trouble with one of his dancing pumps.

A minute or two later, three grimy, uncouth-looking men came into the hall, whom Mavis took to be gasmen.

"Here's the 'Godolphin Band,'" said Mr Poulter, as he caught sight of them.

"All except Baffy: 'e's always late," remarked one of the men.

Mavis was introduced to the three members of the band, all of whom seemed to be somewhat abashed by her striking appearance.

"What about evening dress?" asked Mr Poulter of the trio.

Two of the men coughed and hesitated before saying:

"Very sorry, Mr Poulter, but Christmas coming and all that, sir—"

"I understand," sighed the dancing-master sympathetically; he then turned to the tallest of the three to ask:

"And you, Mr Cheadle?"

"What a question to ask a cornet-player!" replied Mr Cheadle, as he undid his overcoat to reveal a much worn evening suit, together with a frayed, soiled shirt.

"Excellent! excellent!" cried Mr Poulter on seeing the cornet-player's garb.

"One 'ud think I played outside pubs," grumbled Mr Cheadle.

"Now, if only Mr Baffy would come, you artistes could get to work," remarked Mr Poulter pleasantly.

"Let's start without him," suggested Cheadle, who seemed pleased at being referred to as an artiste.

A move was made to the platform at the further end of the hall; when this was reached, a little old man staggered into the hall, bearing on his shoulders a bass viol.

"Here's Baffy!" cried the three musicians together.

When the man disentangled himself from his burden, Mavis saw that the bass viol player was short, unkempt, greyhaired and bearded; he stared straight before him with vacant, watery eyes; his mouth was always agape; he neither greeted nor spoke to anyone present.

In obedience to Mr Poulter's instructions, two of the band brought a big screen from a side-room; this was set up by the piano, at which instrument Mavis took her seat. The screen was arranged so that she and Cheadle, the cornet-player, would be in full sight of the dancers; the three musicians not in evening dress were hidden behind the screen. They commenced a waltz. Mr Baffy did not start with the others; he was set going by a kick from Mr Cheadle. He played without music, seemingly at random, vilely, unconcernedly. Mr Baffy seemed to be ignorant of when a figure was ended, as he went on scraping after the others had ceased, and only stopped after receiving a further kick from Cheadle; he then stared feebly before him, till again set going by a forcible hint from the cornet-player.

Mavis acquitted herself to the grudging satisfaction of Cheadle. A few minutes before the doors were open, Miss Nippett approached her, wearing, besides her usual shawl, a coquettish cap and apron.

"Have you come to the dance?" asked Mavis.

"I'm 'ladies cloak-room' to-night? What do you think of Baffy?"

"I don't know what to think."

"No class, is 'e?"

"Do you know anything about him?"

"I don't 'old with the feller. 'Is presence is a disgrace to the academy," replied the "ladies' cloak-room."

A few minutes later, the first of Mr Poulter's patrons self-consciously entered the room; soon after, dancing commenced.

As if to give Mavis heart for her unaccustomed task, Mr Poulter kept an eye upon her; he encouraged her with smiles whenever she looked in his direction. Mavis's playing was much jeopardised by the conduct of the other musicians; they did not give the least attention to what they were at, but performed as if their efforts were second nature. Soon after the dancing started, Mr Cheadle brought from a pocket a greasy pack of cards, at which he and the two musicians who had arrived with him began to play at farthing "Nap," a game which the most difficult passages of their performance did not interrupt, each card-player somehow contriving to play almost directly it came to his turn. Mr Cheadle, playing the cornet, had one hand always free; he shuffled the cards, dealt them, and put down the winnings. When Mavis became more used to the vagaries of their instrumental playing, she was amused at the way in which they combined business with diversion. Mr Baffy, also, interested her; he still continued to stare before him, as he played with watery, purposeless eyes, and with mouth agape.

Halfway through the programme, there was an interval for refreshments. Mavis was conducted by Mr Poulter to a table set apart for the artistes in the room in which the lightest of light refreshments were served to his patrons.

Mavis sat down to a plateful of what looked uncommonly like her old friend, brisket of beef; she was now so hungry that she was glad to get anything so substantial.

"'Ow are you gettin' on?" asked a familiar voice over her shoulder.

Mavis looked up, to see Miss Nippett, who had discarded her cap and apron; she was now in her usual rusty frock, with her shawl upon her narrow, stooping shoulders.

"All right, thank you. Why don't you have some?"

"No, thank you. I can't spare the time. I'm 'light refreshments.'"

"But they're all eaten!" remarked Mavis, as her eye ranged along a length of table-cloth innocent of food or decoration.

"'Poulter's' ain't such a fool as to stick nothink out; it would all be 'wolfed' in a second. Let 'em ask."

"Some people mightn't like to."

"That's their look-out," snapped Miss Nippett, who had a heart of stone where the interests of anything antagonistic to "Poulter's" were concerned.

At the conclusion of the evening, the band was paid.

Mr Baffy got a shilling for his services, which he held in his hand and looked stupidly before him, till he got a cut with a bow from the second violinist, at which he put the money in his pocket. He then shouldered his bass viol and plunged out into the darkness.

Mavis's heart went out to Mr Baffy. She wondered where and how he lived; how he passed his time; what had reduced him to his present condition.

She spoke of him to Mr Poulter, who looked perplexed before replying:

"Ah, my dear young lady, it's as well for such as you not to inquire too closely into the lives of we who are artistes."

When Mavis had put on her hat and cloak, and was leaving the Athenaeum, Miss Nippett called out:

"It's all right; you can sleep sound; 'e's pleased with you."

"Who?" asked Mavis.

"Mr Poulter. Who else d'ye think I meant?"

Three days later, Mavis severed her connection with "Poulter's." Upon her going, Mr Poulter presented her with a signed photograph of himself in full war-paint, an eulogistically worded testimonial, also, an honorarium (this was his word) of five shillings. Mavis was loth to take it; but seeing the dancing-master's distress at her hesitation, she reluctantly pocketed the money.

Miss Nippett also gave her a specially taken photograph of herself.

"Where's your shawl?" asked Mavis, who missed this familiar adjunct from the photograph.

"I took it off to show off me figure. See?" replied Miss Nippett confidentially.

Mr Poulter asked Mavis if she had further employment in view. She knew how poor he was; also, that if she told him she was workless, he would probably insist on retaining her services, although he could not afford to do so. Mavis fibbed to Mr Poulter; she hoped that her consideration for his poverty would atone for the lie.

For five weeks Mavis vainly tried to get work. She soon discovered how, when possible employers considered her application, the mere mention of her being at "Dawes'" was enough to spoil her chances of securing an engagement.

She had spent all her money; she was now living on the sum she had received from a pawnbroker in exchange for two of her least prized trinkets. Going out in all weathers to look for employment had not improved her clothes; her best pair of boots let in water; she was jaded, heartsick, dispirited. As with others in a like plight, she dared not look into the immediate future, this holding only terrifying probabilities of disaster; the present moment was all sufficient; little else mattered, and, although to-morrow promised actual want, there was yet hope that a sudden turn of fortune's wheel would remove the dread menace of impending ruin. One evening, Mavis, dazed with disappointment at failing to secure an all but promised berth, wandered aimlessly from the city in a westerly direction. She scarcely knew where she was going or what quarter of London she had reached. She was only aware that she was surrounded by every evidence of well-being and riches. The pallid, worried faces of the frequenters of the city were now succeeded by the well-fed, contented looks of those who appeared as if they did not know the meaning of the word care. Splendid carriages, costly motor cars passed in never-ending procession. As Mavis glanced at the expensive dresses of the women, the wind-tanned faces of the men, she thought how, but for a wholly unlooked-for reverse of fortune, these would be the people with whom she would be associating on equal terms. The thought embittered her; she quickened her steps in order to leave behind her the opulent surroundings so different from her own, A little crowd, consisting of those entering and waiting about the door of a tea-shop, obstructed her. An idea suddenly possessed her. Confronted with want, she wondered if she had enough money to snatch a brief half-hour's respite from her troubles. She looked in her purse, to find it contained three shillings. The next moment, she was moving in the direction of the tea-room, her habitual husbandry making a poor fight against the over-mastering desire possessing her.

She walked up a steep, narrow flight of carpeted stairs; this terminated in a long, low room, the walls of which were of black oak, and which was nearly filled with a gaily dressed crowd of men and women. The sensuous music of a string band fell on her ear; the smell of tea and the indefinable odour of women were borne to her nostrils. A card was put in her hand, telling her that a palmist could be consulted on the next floor. In and out among the tables, attendants, clad in the garb of sixteenth century Flemish peasant women, moved noiselessly.

Mavis got a table to herself in a corner by a window which overlooked the street. She ordered tea and toast. When it was brought, she did her best to put her extremity out of sight; she tried hard to believe that she, too, led a happy, butterfly existence, without anxious thought for the morrow, without a care in the world. The effort was scarcely a success, but was, perhaps, worth the making. As she sat, she noticed a kindly-looking old gentlewoman who was pointing her out to a companion; for all the old woman's somewhat dowdy garb, she had rich woman stamped all over her. The old lady kept on looking at Mavis; once or twice, when the latter caught her eye, the elder woman smiled. When she rose to go, she came over to Mavis and said:

"Forgive me, my dear, but your hair looks wonderful against that imitation oak."

"Does it? But it isn't imitation too," replied Mavis.

"Forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course."

"May I ask your name?"

"Keeves. Mavis Keeves."

"A good name," muttered the old lady. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Mavis saw her move towards the door; when she reached it, she turned to smile again to Mavis before going out.

"What a fool I am!" thought Mavis. "If I'd only told her I wanted work, she'd have helped me to something. What a fool I am!"

Mavis rose as if to follow the kindly old soul; but she was too late. As she got up, she saw her step into a fine carriage, which, after the footman had closed the door and mounted the box, had driven away. Mavis sat helplessly. It seemed as if she were as a drowning person who had been offered the chance of clutching a straw, but had refused to take it. There was little likelihood of her getting a second chance. She must resign herself to the worst. She had forgotten; one hope was still left, one she had, hitherto, lost sight of: this to pray to her Heavenly Father, to remind Him that she, as a human sparrow, was in danger of falling; to implore succour. Although she had knelt morning and evening at her bedside, it had lately been more from force of habit than anything else; her heart had not inspired her lips. There had been some reason for this: every morning she had been devoured by eagerness to get work; at night, she had been too weary and dispirited to pray earnestly. Mavis covered her eyes with her hands; she prayed heartfully and long for help. Words welled from her being; their burden was:

"I am young; I love life; help me to live, if only for a little while, in this glorious, wonderful world of Thy making. I only ask for bread, for which I am eager to work. Help me! Help me! Help me!"

Mavis uncovered her eyes. The tea-shop, the music, the indefinable odour of women all seemed bizarre after her communion with the Most High. She made ready to go.

"Are you in trouble?" said a voice at her elbow.

"Yes," she replied.

"I must help you," said the voice.

Mavis saw a richly dressed, bejewelled, comfortable-looking woman at her side.

She was not in the least surprised; a friend had been sent in answer to her prayer.

"Is it over money?" asked the instrument.

Mavis nodded.

"I thought as much. I saw you outside the tea-shop and followed you in. Is your time your own?"

"Absolutely."

"No parents or anyone?"

"I haven't a friend or relation in the world."

"Ah! I must really help you. Come with me. Let me pay for your tea."

Mavis, before she went, found time to offer up brief, heartfelt thanks for having speedily received an answer to her prayer.



CHAPTER TWELVE

MRS HAMILTON'S

Mavis followed her new friend past the pay box, down the carpeted stairs, into the street. She could not help seeing how bedraggled a sparrow she appeared when contrasted with the brilliant plumage of the woman at her side. A superb motor drew up to the pavement, from which a man got down to open the door.

"Get inside, dear," said the woman.

Mavis did as she was bid, hardly realising the good fortune which had so unexpectedly overtaken her.

"Telegraph office, then home," said the woman, who had, also, got into the car.

The man touched his hat and they were off. The woman did not speak at first, being seemingly absorbed in anxious thought. Mavis became conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort like to when—when—she tried to remember when this uneasy feeling had before possessed her. She glanced at her companion; she noticed that the woman's eyes were hard and cold; it was difficult to reconcile their expression with the sentiments she had professed. Then the woman turned to her.

"What is your name?"

"Mavis Weston Keeves."

"My name's Hamilton; it's really West-Hamilton, but I'm known as Mrs Hamilton. How old are you?"

"Eighteen. I'm nineteen in three months."

"Tell me more of yourself."

Mavis briefly told her story; as she finished, the car drew up at a post-office. Mrs Hamilton scanned Mavis's face closely before getting out.

"I shan't be a moment; it's only to someone who's coming to dinner."

Mavis, left alone in the motor, wondered at the strangeness of the adventure. She knew that Mrs Hamilton was scarcely a gentlewoman—even in the broad interpretation nowadays given to the word. But it was not this so much as the fact of her having such hard eyes which perplexed the girl. She had little time to dwell on this matter, as, in a very few moments, Mrs Hamilton was again beside Mavis, and they were speeding up Oxford Street.

"The fact is I live alone," said Mrs Hamilton. "I am in need of a companion, young and nice-looking, like yourself. I wonder if you'd care for the job."

"I wonder if you'd care to have me."

"I entertain a good deal, mostly gentlemen; two gentlemen are coming to dinner to-night."

"But you don't expect me—?"

"Why not?"

"But my clothes."

"Is that all? I've some things that will suit you down to the ground."

"You're very kind," said Mavis, as the motor, having turned into Regent Street, whizzed past the Langham Hotel.

"You play and sing?" asked Mrs Hamilton.

"A little."

"That always helps. And as to terms, if we get along well together, you'll be grateful to me till the day of your death."

Although the words were spoken without a suspicion of feeling, Mavis replied:

"I'm sure I shall."

"Here we are!" said Mrs Hamilton.

Mavis was much surprised that no word had been said about references.

A man-servant opened the door. Mavis passed in with Mrs Hamilton, for whom a telegram was waiting.

"Dinner at eight to-night, Jarvis; an hour earlier than usual. Lay for four," said Jarvis's mistress, after opening the telegram.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Jarvis, as Mrs Hamilton walked upstairs to the drawing-room, followed by Mavis.

Accustomed as Mavis had been of late to bed-sitting rooms or shabby lodging-house parlours, her first glimpse of Mrs Hamilton's richly-furnished drawing-room almost took away her breath. It was not so much the richness of the furniture which astonished her, as the daring scheme of decoration and the profusion of expensive nicknacks scattered about the room; these last were eloquent of Mrs Hamilton's ability to satisfy any whim, however costly it might be. The walls were panelled in white; white curtains were drawn across the windows; black bearskins covered the floor; the furniture was dark, formal, much of it carved; here and there on the white panelling of the walls were black Wedgwood plaques; black Wedgwood china stood audaciously upon and inside cabinets. A large grand piano and the cheerful blaze of a wood fire mitigated the severity of the room.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed Mavis.

"You like it?"

"It's the loveliest room I've ever been in."

"It's your home if we hit it off."

"Do you think we shall?"

"Up to now I don't see any reason why we shouldn't."

Mavis again breathed thanks to Heaven for having so generously answered her prayer. She felt how she would like to tell of her experience to any who denied the efficacy of personal supplication to God.

"Shall I play to you?" asked Mavis, after they had talked for some minutes.

"I don't like music," replied Mrs Hamilton.

"Not?"

"I don't understand it. Let's go upstairs to my room."

If she did not care for music, Mavis wondered why she had made a point of asking if she (Mavis) could play.

Mrs Hamilton's bedroom was a further revelation to the girl; she looked wide-eyed at the Louis Seize gilt furniture, the tapestry, the gilt-edged screens, the plated bath in a corner of the room, the superb dressing-table bestrewed with gold toilet nicknacks.

"Do you like my bed?" asked Mrs Hamilton, who was watching the girl's undisguised wonder.

"I haven't had time to take in the other things."

Mavis looked at the bed; it stood in an alcove on the side of the room furthest from where she was. It was long, low, and gilded; plum-coloured curtains rose in voluptuous folds till they were joined near the ceiling by a pair of big silver doves.

"Do you like it?" asked Mrs Hamilton.

"Like is scarcely the word. I've never imagined anything like it in my life."

"It belonged to Madame du Barri, the mistress of a French king."

"I've read something about her."

"He always wished to give her a toilette set of pure gold, but could never quite afford it. I hope to get one next year if things go well."

Mavis stared at Mrs Hamilton in wide-eyed amazement. The rich woman appeared to take no notice of the girl's surprise, and said:

"Sit by the fire with me a moment. It will soon be time for you to dress."

"Dress! I've only what I've got on with me. My one poor evening dress would look absurd in this house."

"I told you I'd see to that," replied Mrs Hamilton. "I've had a young friend staying with me who was just about your build. She left one or two of her evening dresses behind her. If they don't quite fit, my maid will take them in."

"You are good to me," said Mavis.

"If you like it, I'll give you one."

"How can I ever thank you?"

"You can to-night."

"To-night?"

"Listen. I've two old friends coming to dinner. One is a Mr—Mr Ellis, but he won't interest you a bit."

"Why not?"

"He's old and is already infatuated."

"Isn't the other, then?" asked Mavis lightly.

"Mr—Mr Williams! No. I wonder if you'd interest him."

"I don't suppose so for one moment," remarked Mavis.

"You're too modest. Mr Williams is young, good-looking, rich."

"Money doesn't interest me."

"Nonsense!"

"Really, it doesn't."

"Not after your wanting work for so long?"

"Not a bit."

"Not when you see it can buy things like mine?"

"Of course money is wonderful, but it isn't everything."

"You say that because you don't know. Money is power, happiness, contentment, life. And you know it in your heart of hearts. Every woman, who is anything at all, knows it. Surely, after all you've gone through, it appeals to you?"

Mrs Hamilton anxiously watched Mavis's face.

"Not a bit like it seems to—to some people," replied Mavis.

Mrs Hamilton's face fell. She was lost in anxious thought for some moments.

"Do you mind?" asked Mavis.

"Of course not. But we'll talk it over after you've seen Mr Williams."

"But is it so necessary for his happiness that he should be infatuated with anyone?"

"It might keep him from worse things. He's very impulsive and romantic. I've quite a motherly interest in the boy. You might assist me to reclaim him."

[Footnote: ]Although Mrs Hamilton spoke such maternal sentiments, Mavis looked in vain for the motherly expression upon her face, which she felt should inevitably accompany such words. Mrs Hamilton's face was hard, expressionless, cold. Presently she said:

"If you would care to go to your room, it's on the next floor, and the second door you come to on the right. If it isn't good enough, let me know."

"It's sure to be," remarked Mavis.

"Parkins, my maid, will come to you in ten minutes. Rest till then, as to-night I want you to look your best."

Mavis thanked and left Mrs Hamilton. She then found her way to her chamber. She was as surprised and delighted with this as she had been with the other two rooms, perhaps more so, because she reflected, with an immense satisfaction, that it might be her very own. The room was furnished throughout with satinwood; blue china bowls decorated the tops of cabinets; a painted satinwood spinet stood in a corner; the hearth was open and tiled throughout with blue Dutch tiles; the fire burned in a brass brazier which was suspended from the chimney.

Thought Mavis, as she looked rapturously about her:

"Just the room I should love to have had for always, if—if things had been different."

A door on the right of the fireplace attracted her. She turned the handle of this, to find it opened on to a luxuriously fitted bathroom, in a corner of which a fire was burning. Mavis returned to the bedroom, still wondering at the sudden change in her fortunes; even now, with all these tangible evidences of the alteration in her condition, she could scarcely believe it to be true: it all seemed like something out of a book or on the stage, two forms of distraction which, according to Miss Allen, did anything but represent life as it really was. She was still mentally agape at her novel surroundings when Parkins, Mrs Hamilton's maid, entered the room to dress Mavis.

Parkins's appearance surprised her; she was wholly unlike her conception of what a lady's-maid should be. Instead of being unassumingly dressed, quiet, self-effacing, Parkins was a bold, buxom wench, with large blue eyes and a profusion of fair hair. She wore white lace underskirts, openwork silk stockings, and showy shoes. Her manner was that of scarcely veiled familiarity. She carried upon her arm a gorgeous evening gown.

Mavis made an elaborate toilette. She bathed, presently to clothe herself in the many delicate garments which Mrs Hamilton had provided. Her hair was dressed by Parkins; later, when she put on the evening frock, she hardly knew herself. The gown was of grey chiffon, embroidered upon the bodice and skirt with silver roses; grey silk stockings, grey silver embroidered shoes completed the toilette.

"Madam sent you these," said Parkins, returning to the room after a short absence.

"Those!" cried Mavis, as her eyes were attracted by the pearl necklaces and other costly jewels which the maid had brought.

"Madam entertains very rich gentlemen; she likes everyone about her to look their best."

Mavis, with faint reluctance, let Parkins do as she would with her. The pearl necklaces were roped about her neck; gold bracelets were put upon her arms; a thin platinum circlet, which supported a large emerald, was clasped about her head.

Mavis stood to look at herself in the glass. She could scarcely believe that the tall, queenly, ardent-looking girl was the same tired, dispirited creature who had listlessly pinned on her hat of a morning before tramping out, in all weathers, to search for work. She gazed at herself for quite two minutes; whatever happened, the memory of how she looked in all this rich finery was something to remember.

"Will I do?" she asked of Mrs Hamilton, when that person, very richly garbed, came into the room.

Mrs Hamilton looked her all over before replying:

"Yes, you'll do."

"I'm glad."

"I never make a mistake. You can go, Parkins."

When the maid had left the room, Mrs Hamilton said:

"I'm going to introduce you to my friends as Miss Devereux."

"But—"

"I wish it."

"But—"

Mavis did not at all like this resolve.

"It was the name of my last companion, and I've got used to it. Besides, I wish it."

Mavis resented Mrs Hamilton's sudden assumption of authority; it quickened the vague feelings of dislike which she had felt in her presence, the vague feelings of dislike which reminded her of—of—ah! She remembered now. It was the same uncomfortable sensation which she had always experienced when Mrs Stanley stood by her in "Dawes'."

This discovery of the identity of the two emotions set Mavis wondering if either had anything to do with the character of the two women who had inspired them, and, if so, whether Mrs Hamilton followed the same loathsome calling as Mrs Stanley. Mavis comforted her mind's disquiet by reflecting how Miss Allen had, most likely, not told the truth about Mrs Stanley's occupation; also, by remembering how her present situation was the result of a direct, personal appeal to the Almighty, which precluded the remotest possibility of her being exposed to risk of insult or harm. She had little time for thinking on the matter, for Mrs Hamilton said:

"Mr Ellis has already come. Mr Williams will be here any moment. We'd better go down."

Mavis followed Mrs Hamilton to the drawing-room, where a man rose at their entrance, to whom Mavis was introduced as Miss Devereux.

He scarcely glanced at Mavis, gave her the most formal of bows, and, as the few remarks he made were directed to Mrs Hamilton, the girl had plenty of time in which to observe him. He was elderly, tall, distinguished-looking. He had the indefinable air of being, not only a man of wealth, but a "somebody." She was chiefly attracted by his grey eyes, which seemed dead and lifeless. The underlids of these were pencilled with countless small lines, which, with the weary, dull eyes, seemed quite out of keeping with the otherwise keenly intellectual face.

Mavis secretly resented the man's indifference to her comeliness. A few minutes later, the servant opened the door to announce Mr Williams, whereupon a tall, sun-bronzed, smart-looking man sauntered into the room. Something in his carriage and face suggested soldier to Mavis's mind. He was by no means handsome, but what might have been a somewhat plain face was made pleasant-looking by the deep sunburn and the kindliness of his expression.

Williams shook hands with Mrs Hamilton, nodded to Ellis, and then turned to Mavis. Directly he saw her, a look of surprise came into his face; the girl could not help seeing how greatly he was struck by her appearance. Mrs Hamilton introduced them, when he at once came to her side.

"Just think of it," he said, "I was in no hurry to get here. If I had only known!"

"Known what?" asked Mavis.

"That's asking something. In return I'm going to ask you a question."

"Well?"

"What is it like to be so charming?"

The same question asked by another man might have offended her. There was such a note of sincere, boyish admiration in the man's voice, that she had said, almost before she was aware of it:

"Rather nice."

He said more in the same strain. Mavis found herself greatly enjoying the thinly veiled compliments which he paid her. It was the first time since she had grown up that she had spoken to a smart man, who was obviously a gentleman. If this were not enough to thaw her habitual reserve, there was something strangely familiar in the young man's face and manner; it almost seemed to Mavis as if she were talking with a very old friend or acquaintance, which was enough to justify the unusual levity of her behaviour.

Once or twice, she caught Mrs Hamilton's eye, when she could not help seeing how her friend was much pleased at the way in which she attracted Mr Williams.

When he was taking the girl down to dinner, he murmured:

"May I call here often?"

"There's no charge for admission," replied Mavis.

"It wouldn't make any difference to me if there were."

"How nice to be so reckless!"

"I'm a lot in town for the next three months. I want to get as much out of life as I can."

"From school?"

"Aldershot."

"Are you in the service?"

"Eh!"

"If you are, haven't you any rank at your age?" asked Mavis.

"How do you know I'm not a Tommy?" he asked.

"That's what I thought you were," she retorted.

Mavis and Mrs Hamilton faced each other at table; Williams sat on her right, Ellis on her left. The conversation at the dinner-table was, almost exclusively, between the soldier and Mavis. Ellis scarcely spoke to his hostess, and then only when compelled.

"What will you drink?" asked Mrs Hamilton of Mavis.

"Water, please."

"Water?" echoed Mrs Hamilton.

Mr Ellis looked keenly at Mavis.

"Have some champagne," continued Mrs Hamilton.

"I'd fall under the table if I did. I'll have water. I never drink anything else," said Mavis.

"I never drink anything else except champagne," retorted Mrs Hamilton. "Look here, if Miss Devereux drinks water I shall," declared Williams.

"Do. The change will do you good," replied Mavis.

"See what I've let myself in for," said Williams, as he kept his word.

As the servant was about to pour out champagne for Mr Ellis, Mrs Hamilton said:

"Stop! I've something special for you."

She then whispered to the servant, who left the room to bring back a curious, old bottle. When this was opened, a golden wine poured into Mr Ellis's glass, where it bubbled joyously, as if rejoicing at being set free from its long imprisonment.

As the wine was poured out, Mavis noticed how Mr Ellis's eye caught Mrs Hamilton's.

The meal was long, elaborate, sumptuous. Mavis wondered when the procession of toothsome delicacies would stop. She enjoyed herself immensely; her unaccustomed personal adornment, the cosy room, the shaded lights, the lace table-cloth, the manner in which the food was served, above all, the manly, admiring personality of Mr Williams, all irresistibly appealed to her, largely because the many joyous instincts of her being had been starved for so long.

She surrendered herself body and soul to the exhilaration of the moment, as if conscious that it was all too good to be true; that her surroundings might any moment fade; that her gay clothes would disappear, and that she would again find herself, heartsick and weary, in her comfortless little combined room at Mrs Bilkins's. At the same time, her natural alertness took in everything going on about her.

As the dinner progressed, she could not help seeing how Mr Ellis's eyes seemed to awaken from their torpor; but the life that came into them was such that Mavis much preferred them as they originally were. They sparkled hungrily; it seemed to the girl as if they had a fearful, hunted, and, at the same time, eager, unholy look, as if they sought refuge in some deadly sin in order to escape a far worse fate. Mavis's and Williams's gaiety was infectious. Ellis frequently joined in the raillery proceeding between the pair; it was as if Mavis's youth, comeliness, and charm compelled homage from the pleasure-worn man of the world. Mrs Hamilton, all this while, said little; she left the entertaining to Mavis, who was more than equal to the effort; it seemed to the joy-intoxicated girl as if she were the bountiful hostess, Mrs Hamilton a chance guest at her table. The appearance of strawberries at dessert (it was January) made a lull in Mavis's enjoyment: the out-of-season fruit reminded her of the misery which could be alleviated with the expenditure of its cost. She was silent for a few moments, which caused Ellis to ask:

"I say, Windebank, what have you said to our friend?"

Mavis looked up quickly, to see a look of annoyance on Mrs Hamilton's face.

"Williams, I should have said," corrected Ellis. "I muddled the two names. What have you said to our friend that she should be so quiet all at once?"

"Give it up," replied Williams. "Perhaps she's offended at our childishness."

The men talked. Mrs Hamilton, with something of an effort, joined in the conversation. Mavis was silent; she wondered how Mr Ellis came to address Mr Williams as "Windebank," which was also the name of the friend of the far-away days when her father was alive. She reflected how Archie Windebank would be now twenty-eight, an age that might well apply to Mr Williams. Associated with these thoughts was an uneasy feeling, which had been once or twice in her mind, that the two men at table were far too distinguished-looking to bear such commonplace names as Ellis and Williams. The others rallied her on her depression. Striving to believe that she must be mistaken in her suspicions, she made an effort to end the perplexities that were beginning to confront her.

"Are you at Aldershot for long?" asked Mavis of Mr Williams.

"I scarcely know: one never does know these things."

"Do you come up often?"

"I shall now."

"To see your people?"

"They live in the west of England."

"Wiltshire?"

"How did you know?"

"I didn't; I guessed."

"Wherever they are, I don't see so much of them as I should."

"How considerate of you!"

"Isn't it? But they're a bit too formidable even for one of my sober tastes."

"I see. They're interesting and clever."

"If Low Church and frumpy clothes are cleverness, they're geniuses," he remarked.

"Of course, you prefer High Church and low bodices," retorted Mavis.

Soon after, Mrs Hamilton and Mavis left the men and went upstairs to the drawing-room. The girl was uneasy in her mind as to how Mrs Hamilton would take the fact of her having considerably eclipsed her employer at table; now that they were alone together, she feared some token of Mrs Hamilton's displeasure.

To her surprise and delight, this person said:

"You're an absolute treasure."

"You think so?"

"I don't think; I know. But then, I never make a mistake."

"I'm glad you're pleased."

"I'm not pleased; delighted is more the word. You're worth your weight in gold."

"I wish I were."

"But you will be, if you follow my advice. At first, I thought you a bit of a mug. I don't mind telling you, now I see how smart you are."

Mavis looked puzzled; the extravagant eulogy of her conduct seemed scarcely to be justified.

"You can see Williams is head over ears in love with you. So far, he's been beastly stand-offish to anyone I put him on to," continued Mrs Hamilton.

"Indeed!" said Mavis coldly. She disliked Mrs Hamilton's coarse manner of expressing herself.

Mrs Hamilton did not notice the frown on the girl's forehead, but went on:

"As for that idea of drinking water, it was a stroke of genius."

"What?"

"My heart went out to you when you insisted on having it, although I pretended to mind."

Mavis was about to protest her absolute sincerity in the matter, when Parkins, the maid who had dressed her, came into the room. She whispered to her mistress, at which Mrs Hamilton rose hurriedly and said:

"I must leave you for a little time on important business."

"What would you like me to do?" asked Mavis.

"Particularly one thing: don't leave this room."

"Why should I?"

"Quite so. But I want someone here when Mr Williams comes upstairs."

"I'll stick at my post," laughed Mavis, at which Mrs Hamilton and the comely-looking maid left the room.

Left alone, Mavis surrendered herself to the feeling of uneasiness which had been called into being, not only by her employer's strange words, but, also, by the fact of Mr Williams having been addressed by the other man as Windebank. The more she thought of it, the more convinced was she that Mr Ellis had not made a mistake in calling the other man by a different name to the one by which she had been introduced to him. The fact of his having admitted that his home was in Wiltshire, together with the sense of familiarity in his company, seemingly begotten of old acquaintance, tended to strengthen this conviction. On the other hand, if he were indeed the old friend of her childhood, there seemed a purposed coincidence in the fact of their having met again. She did not forget how her presence in Mrs Hamilton's house was the result of an appeal to her Heavenly Father, who, she firmly believed, would not let a human sparrow such as she fall to the ground. She was curious to discover the result of this seemingly preordained meeting. The sentimental speculation engendered a dreamy languor which was suddenly interrupted by a sense of acute disquiet. She was always a girl of abnormal susceptibility to what was going on about her; to such an extent was this sensibility developed, that she had learned to put implicit faith in the intuitions that possessed her. Now, she was certain that something was going on in the house, something that was hideous, unnatural, unholy, the conviction of which seemed to freeze her soul. She had not the slightest doubt on the matter: she felt it in the marrow of her bones.

She placed her hand on her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid certainty; the temporary deprivation of sight but increased the acuteness of her impression, consequently, her uneasiness. She felt the need of space, of good, clean air. The fine drawing-room seemed to confine her being; she hurried to the door in order to escape. Directly she opened it, she found Parkins, the over-dressed maid, outside, who, directly she saw Mavis, barred her further progress.

"What is it, miss?" she asked.

"Mrs Hamilton! I must see her."

"You can't, miss."

"I must. I must. There's something going on. I must see her."

A fearsome expression came over the maid's face as she said:

"I was coming to remind you from madam of your promise to her not to leave the drawing-room."

"I must. I must."

"If I may say so, miss, it will be as much as your place is worth to disobey madam."

These words brought a cold shock of reason to Mavis's fevered excitement.

She looked blankly at the servant for a moment or two, before saying:

"Thank you, Parkins; I will wait inside."

If her many weeks of looking for employment had taught her nothing else, they now told her how worse than foolish it would be to shatter at one blow Mrs Hamilton's good opinion of her. In compliance with her employer's request, she returned to the drawing-room, her nerves all on edge.

Although more convinced than before of the presence of some abomination, she made a supreme effort to divert her thoughts into channels promising relief from her present tension of mind.

She caught up and eagerly examined the first thing that came to hand. It was a large, morocco-bound, gold-edged photograph album; almost before she was aware of it, she was engrossed in its contents. It was full from cover to cover of coloured photographs of women. There were dark girls, fair girls, auburn girls, every type of womanhood to be met with under Northern skies; they ranged from slim girls in their teens to over-ripe beauties, whose principal attraction was the redundance of their figures. For all the immense profusion of varied beauty which the women displayed, they had certainly two qualities in common—they all wore elaborate evening dress; they were all photographed to display to the utmost advantage their physical attractions. Otherwise, thought Mavis, there was surely nothing to differentiate them from the usual run of comely womanhood. Always a lover of beauty, Mavis eagerly scanned the photographs in the book. To her tense imagination, it was like wandering in a highly cultivated garden, where there were flowers of every hue, from the timid shrinking violet and the rosebud, to the over-blown peony, to greet the senses. It was as if she wandered from one to the next, admiring and drinking in the distinctive beauty of each. There were supple, fair-petalled daffodils, white-robed daisies, scarlet-lipped poppies, and black pansies, instinct with passion, all waiting to be culled. It seemed as if a paradise of glad loveliness had been gathered for her delight. They were all dew-bespangled, sun-worshipping, wind-free, as if their only purpose was to languish for some thirsty bee to come and sip greedily of their sweetness. As Mavis looked, another quality, which had previously eluded her, seemed to attach itself to each and all of the flowers, a quality that their calculated shyness now made only the more apparent. It was as if at some time in their lives their petals had been one and all ravaged by some relentless wind; as if, in consequence, they had all dedicated themselves to decorate the altars raised to the honour and glory of love.

Mavis, also, noticed that beneath each photograph was written a number in big figures. Then the book repelled her. She put it down, not before she noticed that, scattered about the room, were other albums filled presumably in the same way as was the other. She had no mind to look at these, being already surfeited with beauty; also, she was more than ever aware of the sense of disquiet which had troubled her before. To escape once more from this, she walked to the piano, opened it, and let her fingers stray over the keys. She had not touched a piano for many weeks, consequently her fingers were stiff and awkward; but in a few minutes they got back something of their old proficiency: almost unconsciously, she strayed into an Andante of Chopin's.

The strange, appealing, almost unearthly beauty of the movement soothed her jangled nerves; before she was aware of it, she was enrapt with the morbid majesty of the music. Although she was dimly conscious that someone had come into the room, she went on playing.

The next definite thing that she knew was that two strong arms were placed about her body, that she was being kissed hotly and passionately upon eyes and lips.

"You darling; you darling; you perfect darling!" cried a voice.

Mavis was too overcome by the suddenness of the assault to know what to be at; her first instinct was to deliver herself from the defiling touch of her assailant. She freed herself with an effort, to see that it was Mr Williams who had so grossly insulted her. Blind rage, shame, outraged pride all struggled for expression; blind rage predominated.

"Oh, you beast!" she cried.

"Eh!"

"You beast! You beast! To do a thing like that!" Then, as she became on better terms with the nature of the vulgar insult to which she had been subjected, her anger blazed out.

"How dare you insult a defenceless girl?"

"But—" the man stammered.

"What have I ever done but try and work to keep away from such things, and now you come and—Oh, you beast—you cruel beast! You'll never know what you have done."

A sense of shame possessed her. She turned away to drop scalding tears. Anger quickly succeeded this brief fit of dejection. It caused her inexpressible pain to think that she, a daughter of a proud family, the girl with the aloof soul, should have been treated in the same way as any fast London shop-girl. She was consumed with passion; she feared what form her rage might take. At least she was determined to have the man turned out of the house. She moved towards the bell.

"If I've made a mistake," began the man, who all this time had been fearfully watching her.

"If you've made a mistake!" she echoed scornfully.

"The best of us do sometimes, you know," he continued.

"Why to me—to me? What have I said or done to encourage you? Why to me?" she cried.

"If I've made a mistake, I'm more sorry than I can say, more sorry than you can guess."

"What's the use of that to me? You touched my lips. Oh, I could tear them!" she cried desperately.

"Will you hear my excuse?"

"There's no excuse. Nothing—nothing will ever make me forget it. Oh, the shame of it!"

Here bitter tears again welled to her eyes.

The man was moved by her extremity.

"I am so very sorry. I wouldn't have had it happen for anything. I didn't know you were in the least like this."

"Why not? If you had met me as I was before I came here there might have been the shadow of an excuse. Do you usually behave to girls you meet at friends' houses like you did to me?"

"In friends' houses?" he asked, emphasising the word "friends."

"You heard what I said?"

"This is scarcely a friend's house."

"Why not?"

"Eh?"

"Why not? Why not? Can't you tell me?"

"But—"

"Why not? Why not? Answer!"

"Is it possible?"

"Is what possible?"

"You don't know the house you're in?"

"What house?" she asked wildly.

The look of terror, of fear, which accompanied this question was enough to dissipate any doubts of the girl's honesty which may have lingered in the man's mind.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three hours."

"And you don't know what Mrs Hamilton is?"

"No."

"What?" he cried excitedly.

"Tell me! Tell me!"

"Just tell me how you met her."

She told him in short words; she was reluctant to make a confidant of the man who had ravished her lips; she was dimly conscious that he may have had a remote excuse for his behaviour. When she had done, he said:

"Mrs Hamilton is one of the worst women in London. She'd have been 'run in' long ago if she weren't so rich and if her clients weren't so influential."

Mavis looked at him wide-eyed.

"That chap at dinner, didn't, you know he was Lord Kegworth? If you don't, you must have heard of the rotten life he's led."

"But—" stammered Mavis.

"Have you seen any photographs since you've been here?"

"Just now—these."

"She's their agent, go between. Here! What am I telling you? You can thank your stars you've met me."

Mavis's frightened eyes looked into his.

"I'm going to get you out of it."

"You?"

"There's not a moment to lose. Get on your things and clear out."

"But Mrs Hamilton—"

"She's busy for a moment. Slip on something over your dress and join me outside the drawing-room. If anyone interferes with you, shout."

"But—"

"Do as I tell you. Hang it! I must do something to try and make up for my blackguard behaviour."

Mavis went from the room, her heart beating with fear of discovery. For the time being, she had forgotten the insult offered her by the man she had left: her one thought was to put as great a space as possible between this accursed house and herself in the least imaginable time. She scarcely knew what she did. She tore off the pearls, the head circlet with its shining emerald, bracelets and other costly gee-gaws, and threw them on the table; she was glad to be rid of them; their touch meant defilement. She kicked off the grey slippers, tore off the silk stockings, and substituted for these her worn, down-at-heel shoes and stockings. There was no time to change her frock, so she pulled the cloak over her evening clothes; she meant to return these latter to their owner the first thing in the morning. She turned her back on the room, that such a short while back she had looked upon as her own, ran down the stairs and joined the man, who was impatiently waiting for her on the landing. Without exchanging a word, they descended to the ground floor. The front door was in sight and Mavis's heart was beating high with hope, when Mrs Hamilton, who looked tired and heated, stood in the passage.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out for the evening," replied Williams.

"What time shall I expect you back?" she asked of Mavis.

"I'm not coming back," replied Mavis. "I wish I'd never come."

"Then—?"

"Yes," interrupted Williams, anticipating Mrs Hamilton's question.

"You believe and trust a notorious seducer like this man?" asked Mrs Hamilton of Mavis.

"Whatever I am, I ain't that," cried Williams.

"To a man who has ruined more girls than anyone else in London?" continued Mrs Hamilton. "I solemnly warn you that if you go with that man it means your ruin—ruin body and soul."

Mrs Hamilton spoke in such a low, earnest voice, that Mavis, who now recollected Mr Williams's previous behaviour to her, was inclined to waver.

Mrs Hamilton saw her advantage and said:

"Since you disbelieve in me, the least you can do is to go upstairs and take off my clothes."

"She'll do nothing of the kind," cried out the man.

"He doesn't want to lose his prey," Mrs Hamilton remarked to Mavis, who was inclined to falter a little more.

Perhaps Williams saw the weakening of the girl's resolution, for he made a last desperate effort on her behalf.

"Look here," he said, "I'm not a sneak, but, if you don't own up and let Miss Devereux go, I'll fetch in the police."

"You'll what?" cried Mrs Hamilton.

"Fetch in the police. Not to Mrs Hamilton, but to Mrs Bridgeman, Mrs Knight, or Mrs Davis."

Mrs Hamilton's face went white; she looked intently at the man to see if he were in earnest. His resolute eyes convinced her that he was.

The next moment, a torrent of foul words fell from her lips. She abused Mavis; she reviled the man; she accused the two of sin, the while she made use of obscene, filthy phrases, which caused Mavis to put her hands to her ears.

Mavis no longer wavered. She put her hand on the man's arm; the next minute they were out in the street.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAVIS GOES OUT TO SUPPER

"Where now?" asked the man, as the two stood outside in the street.

"Good night," replied Mavis.

"Good night?"

"Good-bye, then."

"Oh no."

"I'm grateful to you for getting me out of that place, but I can never see you or speak to you again."

"But—"

"We needn't go into it. I want to try to forget it, although I never shall. Good-bye."

"I can't let you go like this. Let me drive you home."

"Home!" laughed Mavis scornfully. "I've no home."

"Really no home?"

"I haven't a soul in the world who cares what becomes of me: not a friend in the world. And all I valued you've soiled. It made me hate you, and nothing will ever alter it. Good-bye."

She turned away. The man followed.

"Look here, I'll tell you all about myself, which shows my intentions are straight."

"It wouldn't interest me."

"Why not? You liked me before—before that happened, and, when you've forgiven me, there's no reason why you shouldn't like me again."

"There's every reason."

"My name's Windebank—Archibald Windebank. I'm in the service, and my home is Haycock Abbey, near Melkbridge—"

"You gave me your wrong name!" cried Mavis, who, now that she knew that the man was the friend of her early days, seized on any excuse to get away from him.

"But—"

"Don't follow me. Good-bye."

She crossed the road. He came after her and seized her arm.

"Don't be a fool!" he cried.

"You've hurt me. You're capable of anything," she cried.

"Rot!"

"Oh, you brute, to hurt a girl!"

"I've done nothing of the kind. It would almost have served you right if I had, for being such a little fool. Listen to me—you shall listen," he added, as Mavis strove to leave him.

His voice compelled submission. She looked at him, to see that his face was tense with anger. She found that she did not hate him so much, although she said, as if to satisfy her conscience for listening to him: