"Lexie, I feel a beast, but I’ve got to go. You’ll never understand. That’s why I’ve said so little about him. Woolf, I mean. It isn’t only what he can give me, though it does mean something too. I’m wrong somewhere, I suppose. I don’t think about it like you do. And it’s all right for girls like me. Perhaps it’s the only thing. You’ll never want to see me again. That’s the one part that doesn’t bear thinking about. I don’t suppose you’ll believe I care a hang for you now, but I do, even though it’s too late to go on living with you if I wanted to. The other thing was stronger, that’s all. I had a little Persian cat once. I used to let her out for exercise on a string because I was afraid of losing her. But she got out when I wasn’t looking all the same and disappeared for three days. She couldn’t help it, poor dear. It was just her nature. I expect I’m like that cat. I was bound to go on the tiles. You’ll think that vulgar. I am vulgar all through. That’s the difference between us. "You’ve been the best chum in the world, dear. I can’t thank you properly. I’m a rotter. I’ve left my cash on the dressing-table. I don’t want it. Fred Woolf will be looking after me. Take it, do please. What’s the use of starving when you needn’t. Good-by, Lexie. You may not believe it, but I’m crying and I _do_ care. "MAGGY." XI Mrs. Bell came into the room with the supper tray. It was mostly tray. The supper consisted of two cups of cocoa, half a loaf of bread and an atom of butter. She gave her lodger an inquisitive glance as she spread the tablecloth. Alexandra had Maggy’s letter in her hand, and her face was woefully sad. "You need not lay for two," she said quietly. "Miss Delamere won’t be here in future." The bald statement was sufficient for Mrs. Bell. Ever since the day when Maggy had been brought to her door in a private car she had more or less been prepared for this dénouement. The association of chorus-girls and cars in her experience had but one meaning: a rise for the former in the plane of life with a concomitant and much-to-be-desired acceleration of the pace at which it may be lived. "I’m glad she’s found a friend," she observed cheerfully. "She’s the sort that’s made for a man to look at. Have you seen her chap yet, Miss Hersey?" "I don’t want to talk about Miss Delamere’s affairs," winced Alexandra. "You’re upset, I can see. I’m not denying it’s hard to see a friend carried off like that." Mrs. Bell Bell shook her head deprecatingly. "It’s a trying place, the stage. I wouldn’t go back to it myself, not if I was paid like a Pavlova. I’d rather toil and moil for Mr. Bell downstairs all the days of my life." And having thus asserted her claim to respectability, conjugal endurance and a taste for sour grapes, with admirable conciseness she felt she was privileged to ask another question: "Have you got a shop yet, dear?" "No, it’s the wrong time of year."