'Yes, I see. But what happened actually? Why did you leave the P.R.R.?' 'I had to. You see, Edward . . .' The flush returned. 'Yes?' 'Oh, Vic, I've been a bad girl and I'm so, so unhappy.' Betty seized her friend's hand to raise herself and buried her face on her breast. There Victoria let her sob, gently stroking the golden hair. She understood already, but Betty must not be questioned yet. Little by little, Betty's weeping grew less violent and confidence burst from her pent up soul. 'He didn't get a rise at Christmas, so he said we'd have to wait . . . I couldn't bear it . . . it wasn't his fault. I couldn't let him come down in the world, a gentleman . . . he had only thirty shillings a week.' 'Yes, yes, poor little girl.' 'We never meant to do wrong . . . when baby was coming he said he'd marry me . . . I couldn't drag him down . . . I ran away.' 'Betty, Betty, why didn't you write to me?' The girl looked at her. She was beautiful in her reminiscence of sacrifice. 'I was ashamed . . . I didn't dare . . . I only wanted to go where they didn't know what I was. . . . I was mad. The baby came too early and it died almost at once.' 'My poor little girl.' Victoria softly stroked the rough back of her hand. 'Oh, I wasn't sorry . . . it was a little girl . . . they don't want any more in the world. Besides I didn't care for anything; I'd lost him . . . and my job. I couldn't go back. My landlady wrote me a character to go to Cornwall Road.' 'And there I found you.' 'I wonder what we are going to do for you,' she went on. 'Where is Edward now?' 'Oh, I couldn't go back; I'm ashamed. . . .' 'Nonsense, you haven't done anything wrong. He shall marry you.' 'He would have,' said Betty a little coldly, 'he's square.' 'Yes, I know. He didn't beg you very hard, did he? However, never mind. I'm not going to let you go until I've made you happy. Now I'll tuck you up with a rug, and you're going to sleep before the fire.' Betty lay limp and unresisting in the ministering hands. The unwonted sensations of comfort, warmth and peace soothed her to sleepiness. Besides, she felt as if she had wept every tear in her racked body. Soon her features relaxed, and she sank into profound, almost deathlike slumber. Victoria meanwhile told her story to Jack, who sat in the dining room reading a novel and smoking cigarettes. He came out of his coma as Victoria unfolded the tale of Betty's upbringing, her struggle to live, then love the meteor flashing through her horizon. His cheeks flushed and his mouth quivered as Victoria painted for him the picture of the girl half distraught, bearing the burden of her shame, unable to reason or to forsee, to think of anything except the saving of a gentleman from life on thirty bob a week. 'Something ought to be done,' he said at length, closing his book with novel vivacity. 'Yes, but what?'