Her destination was within easy reach of Marigold Place. It was a stately red-brick house, one of a fashionable avenue, the blue window-boxes gaily crowded with white and scarlet flowers. The upholsteress was shown into the young ladies' boudoir. Two pretty girls were standing at a table, looking through a book of patterns in cretonne. They were twin sisters, and always spoke together. When the servant announced "The young person from Mrs. Xerxes'," both turned on Madge. "Do you think you could upholster a cosy corner for us--Miss Barberry, isn't it? Then we want curtains to match. Can you make curtains? Which of these cretonnes will look best? How many yards will it take? May we stay and watch you work?" Madge contrived to give lucid answers to all their questions, and proved invaluable to the sisters, who were delighted with her. They wasted a whole morning discussing and suggesting; but Madge had her dinner, and they insisted on her staying to tea also. She went home at six. Mrs. Xerxes darted out of the kitchen, pointing mysteriously over her shoulder. "He's in there." "Who?" "Mr. Vespan. I got him downstairs for a change. Suppose you go in and see him?" "I?" "Why not? Where's the harm? But for you, I'd like to know where he'd be!" "Hush! He might hear you," whispered Madge. "Not he. Well, will you come?" Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Xerxes threw open the door of her sitting-room. "I've brought Miss Barberry to see you, sir." Paul Vespan turned his head languidly. In Mrs. Xerxes' back yard, among battered tins and broken bottles, a Madonna lily had grown up, tall, and strong, and pure. It reminded the poet of Madge Barberry, as he saw her then. "I have much to thank you for," he said, "though you saved a worthless life." Madge looked round nervously; but Mrs. Xerxes had disappeared. "How wicked I must seem to you!" Paul Vespan went on, in his weak, weary voice; "but if you knew what I have suffered!" "I think I do know," said Madge, gently. "Life in London is very hard. And it is hardest for such as you are." Paul looked at her inquiringly. "That is----?" "Perhaps you will laugh at me." "No, no. Tell me." "I took you for a poet." "It is the truth." "Not really!" "But it is no use. There is no room for me anywhere. Board-carrying is more lucrative." "Board-carrying?" "Yes. Does it shock you? I am a sandwich-man by profession; a poet by accident." "Oh! it can't be true!" cried Madge, passionately. "You--you, a sandwich-man?" [Illustration: "I AM A SANDWICH-MAN."] "One and twopence a day is poor pay; but I assure you it's better than poetry." "Some day----" "Yes. I know. I have heard that so often. But one never comes up with 'some day.' Perhaps you are not ambitious?" "No." "How do you escape? It is in the air in London." "I only have a wish. It is not great enough to be called an ambition." "Will you tell me what it is?" "Not now. I'm afraid I have let you talk too much as it is."