“And if you could make me talk a little? Because, at sight of the meat so near me, I feel like a tigress--poor human nature! Sir, I have not eaten meat for a week, nor food of any kind this two days.” “Good God!” “So I must be prudent. People have gorged themselves with furious eating under those circumstances; that is why I asked you to supply me slowly. Thank you. You need not look at me like that. Better folk than I have _died_ of hunger. Something tells me I have reached the lowest spoke, when I have been indebted to a stranger for a meal.” Vizard felt the water come into his eyes; but he resisted that pitiable weakness. “Bother that nonsense!” said he. “I'll introduce myself, and then you can't throw _stranger_ in my teeth. I am Harrington Vizard, a Barfordshire squire.” “I thought you were not a Cockney.” “Lord forbid! Does that information entitle me to any in return?” “I don't know; but, whether or no, my name is Rhoda Gale.” “Have another plate, Miss Gale?” “Thanks.” He ordered another. “I am proud of your confiding your name to me, Miss Gale; but, to tell the truth, what I wanted to know is how a young lady of your talent and education could be so badly off as you must be. It is not impertinent curiosity.” The young lady reflected a moment. “Sir,” said she, “I don't think it is; and I would not much mind telling you. Of course I studied you before I came here. Even hunger would not make me sit in a tavern beside a fool, or a snob, or (with a faint blush) a libertine. But to tell one's own story, that is so egotistical, for one thing. “Oh, it is never egotistical to oblige.” “Now, that is sophistical. Then, again, I am afraid I could not tell it to you without crying, because you seem rather a manly man, and some of it might revolt you, and you might sympathize right out, and then I should break down.” “No matter. Do us both good.” “Yes, but before the waiters and people! See how they are staring at us already.” “We will have another go in at the beef, and then adjourn to the garden for your narrative.” “No: as much garden as you like, but no more beef. I have eaten one sirloin, I reckon. Will you give me one cup of black tea without sugar or milk?” Vizard gave the order. She seemed to think some explanation necessary, though he did not. “One cup of tea agrees with my brain and nerves,” said she. “It steadies them. That is a matter of individual experience. I should not prescribe it to others any the more for that.” Vizard sat wondering at the girl. He said to himself, “What is she? A _lusus naturoe?”_