"I said I had no use for 'Bertie.' It was not my fault if he cared for me!--That it nearly gave me 'mal au coeur' to sit facing him at dinner! That I boxed his ears at many times--and that was true!--but she would not believe. She said: 'One can see you are no lady.' So I replied that she could not tell. Impossible! I knew, mon cher, she had started life as a kitchen maid and married her master through a trick and I added: 'I am quite ready to learn any hint regarding cooking, but of my birth you are no judge--I go to my equals to decide.' The servants were all in the hall and Bertie as red as a turkey-cock--and they laughed! I heard them. Then I packed and got away as soon as I could, with all the neighbours' noses glued to the windows. "Virtue did not seem a success--it hides, you see, so much meanness. I tried in vain to find Gustave"--(the name slipped out unconsciously)--"but all my letters were returned--'not known' at the old address. "Then I thought of the Stage. Chorus per'aps?--I sing a little. That began and ended too with a heavy fee to an agent. I got a cold one snowy day and fell ill. Then doctor's bills and the little money I had saved melted away--and so, you see ... here I am!" She finished gaily--"Open--how do you make the phrase?--to any pleasant salaried post!" She glanced sideways at the man, noting the pity on his face. "You wouldn't like...?" Her meaning was plain. "No," said McTaggart, very gently. "Tant pis! You cared once..." She sighed, then coughed. "I can live," she whispered, "on ve-ry little ... also cook..." "Don't!" he quivered on the word. "It's horrible!--to think that _you_..." He swallowed hard, remembering the pretty flat, with the Fantine of old, proud and brilliant--and now ... this! "I'm going to be married," he said quickly--"At least I hope so. But that's no reason why I shouldn't help an old friend." Fantine drew herself up erect. "If I choose to _take_----" her voice was sharp--"I _give_ too! That is honest, I think. I have never asked for charity. But ... oh, mon Dieu!" she broke down under McTaggart's pitiful glance. "Life is hard. C'est un sale metier! And I can't sink--I can't ... I can't ..." a sob broke from the painted lips--"not to ... _that_!" She pointed straight to the lights beyond the silvery arch, to Piccadilly, broad and smooth. McTaggart felt suddenly humbled. He thought for a moment painfully of the lives of those other women, placed for ever outside the pale, sacrificed to man's desire... Then he spoke. "Look here, Fantine. I think you're a splendid little woman! I'd feel proud to be your friend. The pluck of you!"--(he meant it, too). "I wouldn't dream of insulting you by--well--by offering financial help without any equivalent. But there's something you can do for me--if you will?--and it's not too dull?"