At the door Betty kissed Babette good-night; and it was at this moment, as their party stood about, that Betty, taking Moll Davenant’s arm, was accosted by Quogge Myre, who at once assumed the tone towards her that he considered so fascinating to women--a tone of chivalrous condescension. Betty fretted under the attention of his repulsive eyes. She did not like the man--his intent regard could not escape her. He was asking if he might call upon her; and she was answering that she was denying herself all social calls until she had finished a work on which she was engaged, when he put out his hand familiarly and with his fingers flipped the ends of the ruffle that she wore: “You look nice and fresh,” he said. Betty turned her back upon him. He always affected her like filth; when he spoke it was as if filth could speak. She slipped her hand through Molly’s arm. Horace Malahide, who had watched the incident, laughed: “Come, Babette!” said he--“we’ll see Noll and Betty and Moll home.” Betty drew Moll Davenant away as Aubrey put his heels together and gave his bow like a dancing-master. “Come, Moll,” said she, and squeezing the girl’s arm, she added in a laughing whisper--“and I’ll find Eustace to-morrow.” To her surprise there was no answering smile. As Aubrey and Myre turned out into the night together, Aubrey looked at the other out of the corner of his eyes: “That’s a very beautiful woman who--snubbed you--Myre,” said he. Myre shrugged his shoulders: “A woman should require winning,” he said. He licked his puffy underlip sullenly. They walked awhile in silence. “They say that she’s Baddlesmere’s wife,” Aubrey said--“and a prude.” Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre laughed: “Oh, they all like their squeeze,” said he. They walked some way down the street. Aubrey sighed; and after awhile he said absently: “I have never loved a consumptive woman yet. And I have found one--it will be a strange emotional experience.” “Oh, she’s consumptive, the faded lily, is she?” growled Myre. Aubrey smiled: “She is beautiful,” he said--“and she has a hectic mind.” CHAPTER LIV _Wherein the Widow Snacheur separates the Milk from Human Kindness_ In a large and shabby room on the ground floor of the court, a dark blur in the gloom of the gathering dusk, crouched rather than sat the widow Snacheur--_La bête noire_, the street urchins had it in awed whisper, thrusting out mocking chins behind her back. With hard old fingers she was smoothing out upon the bare table the crumpled sheet of newspaper which she had just unfolded from a package sent by a tradesman; the hawklike eyes strained to read the print, but the fading daylight smudged the page. She drew her soiled black shawl more closely about her bent shoulders: She lifted up a reedy voice: “Madelaine!” she cried harshly. A door opened, and there stepped through the opened way a lean girl of fourteen, the drudge that is called maid-of-all-work.