A lady! Wyndham’s kindly instincts go out to this poor waif and stray with an extreme sense of pity. A lady! Very likely, but perhaps no wife. The mother, if a lady, has certainly left the gentle manners of good birth to this poor child, but nothing else. A vindictive anger against the vices of this life in which he lives, and a still greater anger against the _bétises_ of society that would not admit this girl into their ranks, however faultless she may be, because of a blot upon her birth, stirs his soul. That she is one of the great unknown seems very clear to him, but does not prevent his determination to hunt out that scoundrel Moore and break his hold over the girl. In the meantime, it would be well for her to mix with her kind. ‘About a companion,’ says he. ‘You told me you were anxious to continue your studies. I think I know a lady—elderly, refined, and gentle—who would be able to help you. You could go out with her.’ ‘I shall not go out of this house,’ says the girl. She has begun to tremble again. ‘Mr. Wyndham, do not ask me to do that. Even’—slowly, but steadily—‘if you did ask me, I should refuse. I will not go where I can be found. This lady you speak of, if she will come and live with me, and teach me—I should like that; but—’ ‘You will require very little teaching, I think,’ says Wyndham, who has been struck by the excellence of both her manners and her speech, considering her account of her former life. ‘I know nothing,’ says she calmly; ‘but, as I told you, I had read a good deal, and for the past three years I used to go as nursery governess to a Mrs. Blaquiere, who lived in Westmoreland Road. I used to lunch with her and the children, and she was very kind to me; and she taught me a good deal in other ways—society ways.’ ‘You were an apt pupil,’ says he gravely, a little doubtfully, perhaps. ‘I liked the way she talked, and it seemed to come very easy to me after awhile,’ says the girl indifferently, not noticing his keen glance at her. ‘But this governess—this companion?’ asks she. ‘Will she want to go out—to be amused? If so, I could not have her. I shall never go out of this place until—’ ‘Until?’ asks he. ‘You tell me that man has no longer any power over me. I’—she looks at him, and again terror whitens her face—‘I am sure you are wrong, and that he has the power to drag me away from this, if he finds me.’ ‘I should advise you not to dwell on that until I have found him,’ says Wyndham, a little stiffly. The successful barrister is a little thrown back upon himself by being told that he will undoubtedly find himself in the wrong. ‘But this Mrs. Blaquiere, who was so kind to you—why do you not apply to her for protection?’ ‘She and her husband and the children all went to Australia in the early part of last spring, and so I lost sight of them.’ ‘Lost your situation, too?’—regarding her carefully.