"Well, we were sitting at lunch to-day--Tom wasn't going to the office--when that old pig, Mr. Heath, came rushing in, half mad, waving a paper in his hand, cursing and swearing till I thought they would hear him in the street. He threw it on the table, and I noticed a column in leaded type marked with blue pencil. 'There,' he said to Tom, 'there's a nice thing to see about one's self! Some damn dirty skunk's been writing this about me and _The Pilgrim_.' It was so funny to see him, I never saw anybody in such a bate before; I looked over Tom's shoulder, and, without thinking, said, 'Why, I typed that for Mr. Yardly Gobion.' 'What!' they both yelled. 'Well--I'm--damned! Curse the cad!' Excuse me telling you all this. Well, he went on storming and raving, and said he was going to sack you, and write you a letter you'd remember, and what was more, crab you in every paper in London. I'm horribly sorry, it was all through me." Sturtevant gave a long whistle. "Never mind, dear," said Gobion, "it doesn't matter, I don't care; what a rag it must have been!" "I haven't seen the thing in print yet," said Sturtevant, "I'll go out and get a copy." When he had gone, Blanche came closer to Gobion. "Poor boy," she said, "I'm afraid you'll find things rather difficult now." "Never mind, dear, it doesn't matter, I've got past caring for most things. Does Wild know you're here?" "Tom? oh no, he'd half kill me if he did. He never liked you much, you know, he said you put on such a lot of Oxford side." "Isn't he kind to you, then?" "Oh, Lord, no, not now. He was at first, but he's getting tired." "I should cut the brute." "What would I do?" she said sadly, "what would I do? I've no character or money or anything. I'd have to go to the Empire promenade, I expect." She stretched out her hands to the blaze wearily. "Poor little girl," he said, taking one of her hands in his, "poor little girl, it's a nasty, miserable world." She said nothing for half a minute, and then she burst into an agony of tears, dropping her head on his shoulder. "Oh, don't, dear, don't!" said Gobion, half crying too; "try to bear up." "You don't know what it means. You're not an outcast." "Yes I am, dear, I'm a good deal worse than you. I have a hell, too. Be a brave girl." She smiled faintly through her tears. "You are good," she said, "not like the other men." "I'm simply a blackguard; don't tell me I'm good." "You don't shrink from me." "I? Good God! you don't know what I am--sister." At that word she crouched down in her chair, passionately sobbing. "God bless you," she said, "God bless you." "You must leave him, dear, and get your living by your type-writing." He pulled out his pocket-book and made a rapid calculation. "Twenty here and ten at my rooms. Look here," he said, "I'm not hard up now; here's three fivers. It will keep you going for a month or two. Make a new start, little woman."