"It's wicked. Just think of the good you could have done with it." "Good? Who to?" he asked blankly. "You've only to look about you. Don't you know of all the misery there is in the world?" "To tell you the truth, I've never thought very much about it." "Then you ought to." "You think so?" "Most certainly." "Then I'll have to." They were now in Piccadilly. The pavement on which they walked was crowded with women of all ages; some walked in pairs, others, singly. Whatever their age and appearance, all these women had two qualities in common--artificial complexions and bold, inviting eyes. It was the nightly market of the women of the town. This mart has much in common with any other market existing for the buying or selling of staple commodities. Amongst this assembly of women of all ages and conditions (many of whom were married), there were regular frequenters, who had been there almost from time immemorial; occasional dabblers; chance hucksterers: most were there compelled by the supreme necessity of earning a living; others displayed their wares in order to provide luxuries; whilst a few were present merely for the fun of an infrequent bargain. As at other marts, there were those who represented the interests of sellers, and extracted a commission for their pains on all sales effected by their principals. Also, most of the chaffering was negotiated over drink, to obtain which adjournment was made to the handiest bar. This exchange was as subject to economic laws as ruthlessly as are all other markets. There were fat times, when money was plentiful; lean nights, when buyers were scarce or sellers suffered from over-supply. To complete the resemblance, this mart was sensibly affected by world events, political happenings, the robustness or weakness of other markets of industry. Men of all ages swarmed on the pavement; some were buyers, others were attracted by the fun of the fair. The family parties which were occasionally to be met with, as they scurried home to remote suburbs, seemed sadly out of place in this seething collection of vicious men and women. An over-dressed black woman was there, as if to prove, if proof were needed, the universality of sin. As the procession of painted faces loomed out of the fog, it seemed to Mavis as if they were lost souls in the spume of the pit. She drew closer to the man at her side. London, life itself, seemed to the girl's jangled nerves to be a concentrated horror, from which, so it now appeared, the man beside her was her only safeguard. He had certainly insulted her, she reflected; but his conduct was, perhaps, excusable under the circumstances in which he had found her. Directly he had learned his mistake, he had rescued her from further contact with infamy, and had been gentle with her. In return, she had been scarcely civil to him, and had told him a lie when he had asked her if she were his old playmate.