The girl smiled and shook her head. Indeed, Camberwell was as likely to produce a "young man" for Evarne as was a desert island. Not that she was overlooked by the male sex; on the contrary, in common with every girl who is at once poor and beautiful, practically every man who had any sort of opportunity commenced, sooner or later, to make love to her. Quite often strange men turned and walked by her side in the parks, seeking to engage her in conversation. But not for one instant was the proud purity of the beautiful face disturbed. Evarne had loved Morris Kenyon as truly and purely as ever any young girl loved. By the shameful arts of the street _roué_ she was profoundly repelled. So as far as masculine society went, she lived the life of a young nun. She seemed to have nothing left save memories, and these were all tainted with cruel bitterness. As the weary weeks lengthened into months the acuteness of all past emotions--joys and anguish alike--became dimmed, and then faded away. What had been once her life seemed now only a story she had read long ago. That brilliant room at "Mon Bijou"; the lovely garden with its winding mosaic walks; the blueness of the Naples Bay; the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland; her dainty flat and her carriage here in London; the vivid sun of Egypt--none of this was real, surely? Reality was scanty fare in a top garret--incessant stitching--loneliness--and nothing else! And her love for Morris that she would once have sworn could have survived all blows, all passing of time, was as much a thing of the past as were all these other memories. Morris had slain it himself once and for ever. For some time she had cherished the corpse, not knowing it to be lifeless; but gradually the deceptive outward tokens of vitality faded away. A little longer and the dead thing fell to dust and was no more. The glamour of Morris's presence removed enabled her to see more clearly, not only the unforgivable nature of the insults with which he had cast her off, but the great wrong he had done her in the first place, and which had directly led down to these dregs wherein she was now drowning. If she had any feeling for him other than indifference, it was hatred. She felt no gratitude--not one jot--for the money or the care and attention he had once lavished upon her. It had been nothing to him. And since she was merely one of many women who in turn occupied those rooms at "Mon Bijou," she had no more call to be grateful for any of the accompanying accessories of the position than had the horses that passed through his stables.