“I was talkin’ of fishmonger’s, not parson’s souls,” she replied; “but if you ask me, I should say firce look after the body, and the soul’ll look after itself. Same as the ole sayin’ ’bout the pennies and the poun’s. If you was to feed your body up a bit, ’stead o’ wastin’ money on ole cracked plates, books and whatnot, you’d be doing yerself more good, you would.” “Depends on the point of view.” “I know I can’t never do nothin’ if I neglect my bit o’ nourishment.” “Nor I, but you work with your body and I with my brain. That’s why we stock our larders with different fare. There’s mine yonder.” He tilted his head toward the crowded bookcases. “Lot o’ nonsense! Ole books!” “Don’t despise them, please.” “I don’t; but a book’s a thing for after dinner, not to make yer dinner off of, like you do. Wonder is you ’aven’t more pride in yerself.” “Pride?” He was quite startled. “A young feller like wot you are lettin’ ’imself go to pieces like the lilies in the field, or whatever the sayin’ is. ’Ow d’you s’pose you’ll ever take the fancy of a young woman lookin’ like you do? You wouldn’t never do it.” Wynne smiled. “Is it only the dressed ox which can go to the altar?” he asked. “I donno nothin’ ’bout dressed oxes, but I do know as any young woman of spirit looks for a man with a bit of blood in ’im. After all, nature’s nature, y’know, with Christian or ’eathen alike, and there’s no gettin’ away from it.” “You should write a treatise on Eugenics,” said Wynne, and escaped to the solitude of his bedroom. PART FIVE EVE I During a rehearsal of a new play in which he was engaged Wynne noticed Eve Dalry. She was walking-on in the crowd, and did not seem of a piece with the other girls. When her scene was over she slipped away to a quiet corner and produced a book. Finding the required page, she shook her head as though to banish other considerations, seated herself on an upturned box, and began to read with great absorption. Partly from curiosity to see the title of the book Wynne moved toward her. Carlyle’s “Heroes and Hero Worship.” A queer choice for a girl to make, he thought, and wondered how much she understood. For awhile he stood behind her glancing at a paragraph here and there, and watching the careful way she turned over a page, then turned it back again to reread and reconsider some passage not wholly understood. He was unused to women who read so seriously, and, despite the semi-cynical smile at the corners of his mouth, her studiousness impressed him. Presently, impelled by a new and curious familiarity, he drew a long, tapered forefinger over the straight, thin parting in her hair. She looked up slowly, as though his action had been scarcely enough to distract her attention.