"Well, they wouldn't have me, not one of them. They pretended to at first; and my Uncle John at least was sincere, I think, and was kind for a time, but was afraid of my grandmother as they all were. Christopher--you know him of course--was a real friend to me. He'd stood up for my father before and he stood up for me now. But what was the use? I was wild when I saw that my grandmother was against me and was going to do her best to ruin me. I just didn't care then--what was the good of it all? Other people encouraged me. The set in London that hated my people would have done something with me, but I wouldn't be held by anyone. "I'm not excusing myself," he said quietly, looking away from the window and suddenly taking his judgment from her eyes. "I know you're not," she said, smiling back to him. "Cards finished me. I'd always loved gambling--I love it still--my father had given me a good education in it. There were plenty of fellows in town to take one on and--Oh! it's all such an old story now, not worth digging up. But there was a house and a table and a young fool who lost all he possessed and--well, did for himself. It had all been square as far as I was concerned, but somebody had to be a scapegoat and two or three of us were named. It was hushed up for the sake of the young fellow's people, but everyone knew. Of course they all said, as far as I was concerned, 'Like father like son,' and I think I minded that more than anything----" "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Lizzie said. "I give you my word of honour that it had all been straight as far as I was concerned--gambling just as anyone might. That's what made me so mad, to think of the rest of them--all so virtuous and good--and then going off to Monte Carlo and losing or winning their little bit--just as I'd done. "I tried to brazen it out for a bit, but it was no good. Christopher still stuck by me--otherwise it was--well, the Under Ten, you know----" "The Under Ten?" "Yes--all the men and women who've done something--once--done one of the things that you mustn't do. It mayn't have been very bad, not half so bad as the things--the cruel, mean things--that most people do every day of their lives, but, once it's there, you're down, you're under. There's a regular colony of them here in London; their life's amusing. There they are, hanging on here, keeping up some pretence of gaiety, some kind of decency, waiting, hoping that the day will come when they'll be taken back again, when everything will be forgotten. They pretend, bravely enough, not to mind their snubs, not to notice the kind people, once their friends, who cut them now. Every now and again they make a spring like fish to the top of the water, see the sun, hope that the light and air are to be theirs again, after all--and then back they are pushed, down into the dark, their element now, they are told. Oh! there's comedy there, Miss Rand, if you care to look for it."