This affair inaugurated hard times for Eve, nor did the bitterness that it aroused in her help her to bear the new life with philosophy. It had had something of the effect on her that the first discovery of sex has upon a sensitive child. She felt disgusted, shocked, saddened. Life would never be quite the same, at least, so she told herself, for this double treachery had shaken her trust, and she wondered whether all men were like Hugh Massinger, and all women careful hypocrites like Miss Champion. She longed for Kate Duveen’s sharp and acrid sincerity. Hers was a personality that might take the raw taste out of her mouth, but Eve did not write to Kate to tell her what had happened. Her pride was still able to keep its own flag flying, and it seemed contemptible to cry out and complain over the first wound. One thing was certain, her income had stopped abruptly. She had about thirty-five pounds left to her credit at the bank. The rent of her rooms was a pound a week, and she found that her food cost her about twelve shillings, this sum including the sixpenny lunches and fourpenny teas that she had in the City. Putting her expenditure at thirty-five shillings a week, she had enough money to last her for twenty weeks, granted, of course, that nothing unexpected happened, and that she had not to face a doctor’s bill. It behoved her to bustle round, to cast her net here, there, and everywhere for work. She entered her name at several “Agencies,” but found that the agents were none too sanguine when she had to confess that she could neither write shorthand nor use a typewriter. Her abilities were of that higher order whose opportunities are more limited. People did not want artistic cleverness. The need was all for drudges. During her first workless week at Bosnia Road, she designed a number of fashion plates, and painted half a dozen little pictures. She called at one of the despised picture shops, and suggested to the proprietor that he might be willing to sell these pictures on commission. The proprietor, a depressed and flabby dyspeptic, was not encouraging. “I could fill my window with that sort of stuff if I wanted to. People don’t want flowers and country cottages. Can’t you paint pink babies and young mothers, and all that?” Eve went elsewhere, and after many wanderings, discovered a gentleman in the West Central district who was ready to show her pictures in his window. He was a little more appreciative, and had a better digestion than the man who had talked of babies. “Yes, that’s quite a nice patch of colour. I don’t mind showing them. People sometimes like to get the real thing—cheap.” “What would one ask for a thing of this kind?” “Oh, half a crown to five shillings. One can’t expect much more.” “Not so much as for a joint of meat!” He was laconic. “Well, you see, miss, we’ve all got digestions, but not many of us have taste.”