"My dear Mary, there is no kindness like it in the world, because generally it is the very essence of self-sacrifice. But there is another side to the matter. They _have_ to be careful, they are compelled to look coldly on outsiders, they--but why am I preaching social sermons to you at this time of night? We must make the best of it till morning and then try to find Mrs. Speed." It seemed a hopeless kind of business to Mary. Something like looking for a needle in the proverbial truss of hay. But the girl's wits were sharpened now by this sudden contact with adversity. She began to see a way. "It may be possible to find Mrs. Speed," she said. "It will be weary work, but the thing has to be done. The man I was speaking about, the man who was here yesterday--he is calling here tomorrow for a certain letter. I could force him to . . . but that shall be my business. The question is where shall we sleep? Not on these bare boards. And I shall drop if I don't have something to eat." The dawn was breaking in through the shutterless windows now--the red dawn of the summer day that gives London an added touch of beauty. It would be broad daylight before long. The presence of the light gave Mary a new courage. "It is useless to think of sleeping anywhere," Connie said. Her face was pale and downcast, all the colour had gone out of her eyes. Mary had not before seen her friend on the verge of despondency, and the knowledge spurred her to new efforts. "Let us go for a walk before the place gets hot and stuffy and full of struggling humanity. A London crowd always makes me so sad--it is awful to think that every man and woman streaming past you is engaged in the struggle for bread." "Come out of this," Mary said hoarsely. "Let us feel the sunshine. This is heart-breaking, nerve-destroying work, but I am not sorry that I came. Let us go and watch the sun rise, and if there is any place where we can get something to eat----"