She was trying to be arch, but her voice was really quivering to tears, and in that sentence rang all the tragedy of her poor life. Julian looked across at her as she sat by the tray, buttering now almost mechanically. She was naturally a pretty girl, but was growing rapidly haggard, and was badly made up, rouged in wrong places consumptively, powdered everywhere disastrously. Her eyes were pathetic, but above them the hair was dreadfully dyed, and frizzed into a desolate turmoil. She had a thin young figure and anxious hands. As he looked Julian felt a profound pity and a curious manly friendship for her. She had that saddest aspect of a human being about whom it doesn't matter. Only it matters about every living creature so much. The lady caught his eye, and extended her lips in a forced smile. "You never know your luck!" she cried. "So it don't do to be down on it. Come on, dearie. Now then for the tea." She poured it out, and Julian drew up to the table. Already he felt oddly at home in this poor room, with this poor life, into which he longed to bring a little hope, a little safety. Jessie sprang to his knees, and thence, naughtily, to the table, snuffling towards the plate of toast. The lady drew it away and approached it to her nose by turns, playfully. "She is a funny one," she said. "Is your tea right, dearie?" "Perfect," said Julian. "Is my toast right?" "Right as ninepence, and righter." She munched. "I like you," she said. "You're a gentleman." She spoke naturally, without coquetry. It was a fine experience for her to be treated with that thing some women never know--respect. She warmed under it and glistened. "We must be friends," Julian said. "Pals. Yes. Have some more sugar?" She jumped two lumps into his cup, and laughed quite gaily when the tea spouted over into the saucer. And they chatted on, and fed Jessie into joy and peace. Gradually Julian drew the conversation round to the photographs. The lady was expansive. She gave short histories of some of the men, summing them up with considerable shrewdness, kodaking their characters with both humour and sarcasm. Julian and she progressed along the mantelpiece together. Presently they arrived at the old lady with the Bible. "And this?" Julian said. The lady's fund of spirits was suddenly exhausted. "Oh, that," she said, and a sort of strange, suppressed blush struggled up under the rouge on her face. "Well, that's mother." "I like her face." "Yes. She thinks I'm dead." The lady turned away abruptly. "I'll just carry the tray down to Mrs. Brigg," she said, and she clattered out with it, and down the stairs. Julian heard her loudly humming a music-hall song as she went, the requiem of her dead life with the old woman who held the Bible on her knees. When she returned, her mouth was hard and her eyes were shining ominously. Julian was still standing by the mantelpiece. As she came in he pointed to the photograph of Marr. "And this?" he asked. "Who's this?"