“I must,” Mary said. “What I'd like to do would be to get up and say, 'If you doubt me, I'll not trouble to convince you.' I'd like to walk out and leave you and face anything rather than 'explain.' Why should I 'explain' to anybody? But I'm not going to walk out. I haven't the pluck. I know what it is like to be alone out there.” She gave a little choke. “I've learnt that much, anyway.” She went on. “I'll just tell you, that's all. I don't want your sympathy; I only want your sense of justice.” “I like your spirit,” Miss Ram said. It was a quality she rarely found in her applicants. “Go on.” Then Mary told. She phrased bluntly. Her recital was after the manner of the fireworks called “Roman candles.” These, when lit, pour out fire and smoke in a rather weak-kneed dribble. They must be held tightly. When tensely enough constricted, of fire and smoke there is little, but at intervals out there pops an exceedingly luminous ball of flame. My Mary kept the pressure of pride upon her throat. There was no dribble of emotion. Only the facts popped out--hard and dry, and to Miss Ram intensely illuminative. Mary did not mention George's name. She concluded her narrative with jerky facts relative to the scene in the Park. “Then I ran away,” she said, “and a friend of mine came up. He had seen. And he thrashed him. When I got back to Mrs. Chater's her son had arrived--battered. He told his mother that he had seen me with a man and had interfered. That the man assaulted him. That's all.” “The miserable hound!” pronounced Miss Ram with extraordinary ferocity. From a drawer in her desk she took a manuscript book, bound in limp leather, tied with blue ribbon. Herein were contained the remarkable thoughts which from time to time had come to this woman during her seventeen years' occupancy of the chair in which she sat. Upon the flyleaf was inscribed “Aphorisms: by Eugenie Ram.” It was her intent to publish this darling work when beneath each letter of the alphabet twelve aphorisms were written. “The miserable hound!” cried she, when the full tale of Mr. Bob Chater's vileness was told; drew “Aphorisms” towards her and wrote in hot blood. Then looked at Mary. “_L,_” she read, “_L. Lust. Lust is the sound meat of natural instinct gone to carrion. Men eat meat, wolves eat carrion. Some men are wolf-men_--Hand me the dictionary, Miss Humfray. Two r's in carrion. I _thought_ so. Thank you.” She replaced “Aphorisms.” “My dear, I will do what I can for you,” she told Mary. “I _do_ believe you. Go into the interview room. I hear a step.” III. That step was George's. Abashed in this home of women he shuffled uneasily in the passage, then put a hesitating knuckle upon “Enquiries.” From within a violent movement was followed by a strange guttural sound. George entered.