Robert frequently took her out to lunch, and the frailty of the natural man prevailing over the submission of the lover, he had, at an early date, abandoned the vegetarian restaurant for Prince’s or the Carlton. Resigning her principles, as a tender concession to Robert’s weakness, Philippa had become reconciled to six-course meals, and began to hate plasmon and suspect the efficacy of vegetables as an incentive to exalted thought. She began to yearn, like the rich man, to fare sumptuously every day. Yet what was the use of such a desire as that when not only was she hard pressed to live at all, but also more deeply in debt than she cared to own even to herself? In old days, living in the sunshine of the smiles and the blank cheques of her dearest friends, Philippa had run up bills with alarming celerity. The “simple” dress was not cheap. Neither were the ornaments for which she had an unfortunate weakness; clasps and pendants of enamel and uncut gems of chaste and simple workmanship--but quite expensive. The bills began to come in with alarming frequency, and a growing tendency to unpleasant remark. She grew depressed. Robert, who raged over the injustice of a callous world which imposed poverty on beauty, constantly implored to be allowed to lighten the load. Philippa, smiling through her tears, as constantly refused. It was she who had at last suggested the secretaryship. Robert had at first demurred, and seeing this she had pressed the point, had made it a test of his love for her. In no other way would she take from him so much as a farthing. He yielded, and under cover of her value to him as secretary Robert paid her an absurdly generous salary. But even with Robert to the rescue matters were bad enough. Philippa fingered disgustedly the last bill she had received, and finally threw it into the fire. She sat gazing at the flame it made, the furrow between her eyes deepening as she thought. And in the background there was something worse. Characteristically she did not face it. She thought of it hazily, indeed, but it was inexorably there. She had put a weapon into the hands of a man who, if he used it at all, would not use it like a gentleman. A neighboring church clock struck, and she started up. Quarter to four!--and she was not dressed. She hastened into her bedroom, which opened out of the studio, and began to make a hasty toilet. The room was untidy and not very clean, and if to the garments revealed when the dressing-gown was thrown aside the same remark applied, it must in justice be remembered that even perfect cleanliness is dependent upon the amount of living wage. By the time the downstairs bell rang at a few minutes past four, Philippa looked like the Blessed Damosel, and Mr. Nevern, as he followed her up the studio stairs, felt what it was to be on the right side of the gold bar of heaven.