“Your imagination should come to the rescue,” she remarked. “I have no imagination,” he declared, gloomily. They were silent for several minutes; she was still studying him. “I wonder you don't ask me any questions about myself,” she said, abruptly. “There is only one thing,” he answered, “concerning which I am in the least curious. Last night in the chemist's shop--” “Don't!” she begged him, with suddenly whitening face. “Don't speak of that!” “Very well,” he replied, indifferently. “I thought that you were rather inviting my questions. You need not be afraid of any more. I really am not curious about personal matters; I find that my own life absorbs all my interests.” They had finished breakfast and he paid the bill. She began to put on her gloves. “Whatever happens to me,” she said, “I shall never forget that you have been very kind.” She hesitated for a moment and then she seemed to realize more completely how really kind he had been. There had been a certain crude delicacy about his actions which she had under-appreciated. She leaned towards him. There was nothing left this morning of that disfiguring sullenness. Her mouth was soft; her eyes were bright, almost appealing. If Tavernake had been a judge of woman's looks, he must certainly have found her attractive. “I am very, very grateful to you,” she continued, holding out her hand. “I shall always remember how kind you were. Good-bye!” “You are not going?” he asked. She laughed. “Why, you didn't imagine that you had taken the care of me upon your shoulders for the rest of your life?” she demanded. “No, I didn't imagine that,” he answered. “At the same time, what plans have you made? Where are you going?” “Oh! I shall think of something,” she declared, indifferently. He caught the gleam in her eyes, the sudden hopelessness which fell like a cloud upon her face. He spoke promptly and with decision. “As a matter of fact,” he remarked, “you do not know yourself. You are just going to drift out of this place and very likely find your way to a seat on the Embankment again.” Her lips quivered. She had tried to be brave but it was hard. “Not necessarily,” she replied. “Something may turn up.” He leaned a little across the table towards her. “Listen,” he said, deliberately, “I will make a proposition to you. It has come to me during the last few minutes. I am tired of the boarding-house and I wish to leave it. The work which I do at night is becoming more and more important. I should like to take two rooms somewhere. If I take a third, would you care to call yourself what I called you to the charwoman last night--my sister? I should expect you to look after the meals and my clothes, and help me in certain other ways. I cannot give you much of a salary,” he continued, “but you would have an opportunity during the daytime of looking out for some work, if that is what you want, and you would at least have a roof and plenty to eat and drink.”