In theory she knew her way about. The migratory systems of domestic experience said nothing to her, nor, thus far, had the charts of matrimony either. In the sphere of life to which a walk-up leads, the charts were dotted with but the postman and the corner druggist. Men and plenty of them she had met, but they too said nothing and not at all because they were dumb, but because, as the phrase is, they did not talk her language. But for every exception there is perhaps a rule. The one man who did speak her language, had held his tongue. Now, as she shoved at her plate, she saw him, saw the tea-caddy, saw his rooms and saw too, as she left them, the girl to whom he was engaged. In the memory of that she lingered and looked down. "Why, he could lead an orchestra of his own, your papa could." Cassy looked up. She had been far away, too far, in a land where dreams do not come true. Impatiently she twisted. "What?" "Didn't you hear me, dearie? I was talking about money--bushels of it." About the bushels the woman rolled her tongue. They tasted better than the fritters. A waiter approached. The room was long, dark, narrow, slovenly, spaced with tables on which were maculate cloths and lamps with faded shades. Greasily the waiter produced the bill. "Bushels!" she appetisingly repeated. Cassy paid. The waiter slouched away. "You will drive through life in a hundred horsepower car and be fined for speeding. The papers will say: 'Mrs. Pal----'" "What did he pay you to tell me that?" Cassy exploded at her. Unruffled by the shot, which was part and parcel of the job, and realising that any denial would only confirm what at most could be but a suspicion, the former diva fingered her pearls and assumed an air of innocence. But already Cassy had covered her with her blotting-paper look. "As if I cared!" "Dearie, he did pay me. He paid me the compliment of supposing that I take an interest in you. But he said nothing except what I said he said. He said if he got down on his knees you would turn your back on him." "Then he is cleverer than he looks." "Well, anyway, he is clever enough to have bushels of money and that is the greatest cleverness there is." "In New York," retorted Cassy, who had never been anywhere else, physically at least, though mentally her little feet had trod the streets of Milan, the boards of the Scala. "It can't be much different in Patagonia," replied this lady, who, to save her life, could not have told whether the land was Asiatic or African, nor who, to save her soul--if the latter were still salvable--could not have told that it was neither. "Besides," she added, "I was only thinking of your poor, dear papa." Cassy said nothing. She stood up. She was making for the door and the charm of the scented streets. Ma Tamby sighed, rose and followed. It was the devil's own job. Housebreaking must be easier! XIV