She hesitated, and I saw that she intended still to fence with me. Of late all her woman's wit seemed to concentrate in the ingenious evasions of my questions in order to render my cross-examination fruitless. "He is my lover, that is all." "But what is he?" I asked. "I have never inquired," she responded with affected carelessness. "And you have actually accepted a strange man as your lover without first ascertaining who or what he is?" I said in amazement. "This is not like you, Muriel. You used to be so prudent when at Madame's that some of the girls laughed at you and called you prudish. Yet now you simply fling yourself helplessly in the arms of this rather odd-looking man without seeking to inquire anything about him." "I know sufficient to be confident in him," she responded, with a girlish enthusiasm which at the moment struck me as silly. "If you are confident in him it is quite plain that he reposes no confidence in you," I argued. "Why?" "Because he has told you nothing of himself." "It matters not," she responded in enraptured voice. "Our love is itself a mutual confidence." "And you are perfectly happy in this new situation of yours?" "No," she answered, vainly endeavouring to restrain a sigh. "Not perfectly. I'm in the ribbon department, and the work is much harder and the hours longer than at Madame's. Besides, the rules are terribly strict; there are fines for everything, and scarcely any premiums. The shop-walkers are perfect tyrants over the girls, and the food is always the same--never a change." "Yet you told me a short time ago that you were quite contented?" I said reproachfully. "Well, so I am. There are many worse places in London, where the hours are even longer, and the girls have no place but their bedrooms in which to sit after business hours. The firm provides us with a comfortable room, I must admit, even if they only half feed us." Long ago, in the early days of our friendship, when she used to sit and chat with me over tea in my chambers, she had explained how unvaried food was one of the chief causes of complaint among shop-assistants. "But I can't bear to think that you are in such a place as that," I said. "Madame's was so much more genteel." "Oh, don't think of me!" she responded with a brightness which I knew she did not really feel at heart. "But I do," I said earnestly. "I do, Muriel; because I love you. Tell me now," I added, taking her arm. "Tell me why you have turned from me." She was silent a moment, then in a faltering voice, replied-- "Because--because it was imperative. Because I knew that I did not love you." "But will you never do so?" I asked in desperation. "Will you never give me hope? I am content to wait, only tell me that you will still remember me, and try to think of me with thoughts of love." "To entertain vain hope is altogether useless," she answered philosophically.