The cab came to an abrupt stop. Some distance ahead a horse was down on the slippery road; shouts came from the crowd around it. Victoria idly watched the girl, swinging the wet rag from right to left. Poor thing. Everything in her seemed to cry out against the torture of womanhood. She was a picture of dumb resignation as she knelt with her back to the road. Victoria could see her long thin arms, her hands red and rigid with cold, her broken-down shoes with the punctured soles emerging from the ragged black petticoat. There was a little surge in the crowd. The girl got up, and with an air of infinite weariness stretched her arms. Then she picked up the pail and bucket and turned towards the street. For the space of a second the two women looked into one another's faces. Then Victoria gave a muffled cry and jumped out of the cab. She seized with both hands the girl's bare arms. 'Betty! Betty!' she faltered. A burning blush covered the girl's face and her features twitched. She made as if to turn away from the detaining hands. 'Vicky, what are you doing . . . what does this mean?' came Jack's voice from the cab. 'Wait a minute, Jack. Betty, my poor little Betty. Why are you here? Why haven't you written to me?' 'Leave me alone,' said Betty hoarsely. 'I won't leave you alone. Betty, tell me, what's this? Are you married?' A look of pain came over the girl's face, but she said nothing. 'Look here, Betty, we can't talk here. Leave the bucket, come with me. I'll see it's all right.' 'Oh, I can't do that. Oh, let me alone; it's too late.' 'I don't understand you. It's never too late. Now just get into the cab and come with me.' 'I can't. I must give notice . . .' She looked about to weep. 'Come along.' Victoria increased the pressure on the girl's arms. Jack stood up in the cab. He seemed as frightened as he was surprised. 'I say, Vicky . . .' he began. 'Sit down, Jack, she's coming with us. You don't mind if we don't go to Ventnor?' Jack's eyes opened in astonishment but he made no reply. Victoria pulled Betty sharply down the steps. 'Oh, let me get my things,' she said weakly. 'No. They'd stop you. There, get in. Drive back to Elm Tree Place, cabman.' Half an hour later, lying at full length on the boudoir sofa, Betty was slowly sipping some hot cocoa. There was a smile on her tear-stained face. Victoria was analysing with horror the ravages that sorrow had wrought on her. She was pretty still, with her china blue eyes and her hair like pale filigree gold; but the bones seemed to start from her red wrists, so thin had she become. Even the smile of exhausted content on her lips did not redeem her emaciated cheeks. 'Betty, my poor Betty,' said Victoria, taking her hand. 'What have they done to you?' The girl looked up at the ceiling as if in a dream. 'Tell me all about it,' her friend went on, 'what has happened to you since April?' 'Oh, lots of things, lots of things. I've had a hard time.'