As for the food--that was naturally beyond her. Everything was orderly, yet here the art of politeness had certainly not been brought to a fine point. One man helped himself to potatoes with his fork, then passed the dish to her, meat being already provided, so much on a plate. Thus the first course passed, untouched by Marigold, who every moment began to feel greater distaste and in an utterly false position. The pudding was of plain boiled suet containing currants and raisins, and was very good, had its surroundings been more appetising--indeed, everything was good and suitable to the company eating it, but Marigold was not of the company. Now, it was customary for the High Priest to occasionally visit the dining-rooms during meal-times, and it chanced that to-day he paid one of his visits. He brought with him a guest--a friend who had lately come to stay with him, and, as it was not usual for the people to make any demonstration when the High Priest entered, Marigold was unconscious of his presence till they were almost opposite where she sat. Then, looking across over the heads of those opposite, she saw both him and her acquaintance of the early morning--and the three pairs of eyes met instantaneously. Now, on Lucifram there was not much diversity of tongues so far as foreign lands were concerned, because they had never exactly had a Tower of Babel, but there were two distinct languages spoken for all that--one by the rich, one by the poor. The High Priest and his friend were talking familiarly enough, but the wolfish eyes and empty stomachs didn’t understand, didn’t care, so long as their appetites were satisfied, which was really very sensible of them. Now, for the second time that day was Marigold caught in a position altogether distasteful to her. Had her companions been clean and respectable, like the ideal charwoman she had set up for herself, she might not have cared at all. But alas! the poor of our imagination, and the poor of reality, are so totally unalike! Many of the riff-raff were gathered here. Till now she had not understood the meaning of the word. But at least she herself was clean and beautiful--as beautiful as the atmosphere allowed, and no respectable ugliness hung about her hat. Those round her had not noticed her appearance--if asked, they would probably have preferred a little more dirt for actual beauty. Such is the strength of custom. “There is a little girl I met last night,” said the High Priest in a lower voice to his companion, presuming that Marigold, being poor, could not understand. “Ah! and I met the same little girl this morning,” replied the tin-voiced man in a peculiarly soft tone. “Only, poor women are like rich ones in the matter of dress--they like a frequent change. I only recognise her by her extremely colourless eyes.” “Last night she came and begged gold of me. I was astonished and displeased that any one so young could be so bold at begging.”