That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way. She felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the view of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah, what was it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to come in here and dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains, dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine places. He seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at his friendship and regard for her. “So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?” he said. “What are you going to do now?” “Look around,” she said, a thought of the need that hung outside this fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her eyes. “Oh, no,” said Drouet, “that won’t do. How long have you been looking?” “Four days,” she answered. “Think of that!” he said, addressing some problematical individual. “You oughtn’t to be doing anything like that. These girls,” and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls, “don’t get anything. Why, you can’t live on it, can you?” He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie was really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure was evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet looked at her and his thoughts reached home. She felt his admiration. It was powerfully backed by his liberality and good-humour. She felt that she liked him—that she could continue to like him ever so much. There was something even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her mind. Every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the interchanging current of feeling would be fully connected. “Why don’t you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?” he said, hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide. “Oh, I can’t,” she said. “What are you going to do to-night?” “Nothing,” she answered, a little drearily. “You don’t like out there where you are, do you?” “Oh, I don’t know.” “What are you going to do if you don’t get work?” “Go back home, I guess.” There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow, the influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an understanding of each other without words—he of her situation, she of the fact that he realised it. “No,” he said, “you can’t make it!” genuine sympathy filling his mind for the time. “Let me help you. You take some of my money.” “Oh, no!” she said, leaning back. “What are you going to do?” he said. She sat meditating, merely shaking her head. He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some loose bills in his vest pocket—greenbacks. They were soft and noiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in his hand. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll see you through all right. Get yourself some clothes.”