JEAN (_brightly_). Indeed, indeed, I can think of everything better than I ever did before. He has lit up everything for me--made everything vivider, more--more significant. MISS L. (_turning round_). Who has? JEAN. Oh, yes, I don't care about other things less but a thousand times more. LADY JOHN. You _are_ in love. MISS L. Oh, that's it! (_Smiling at_ JEAN.) I congratulate you. LADY JOHN (_returning to the outspread plan_). Well--_this_, you see, obviates the difficulty you raised. MISS L. Yes, quite. MRS. H. But it's going to cost a great deal more. MISS L. It's worth it. MRS. H. We'll have nothing left for the organ at St. Pilgrim's. LADY JOHN. My dear Lydia, we're putting the organ aside. MRS. H. (_with asperity_). We can't afford to "put aside" the elevating effect of music. LADY JOHN. What we must make for, first, is the cheap and humanely conducted lodging-house. MRS. H. There are several of those already, but poor St. Pilgrim's---- MISS L. There are none for the poorest women. LADY JOHN. No, even the excellent Soper was for multiplying Rowton Houses. You can never get men to realise--you can't always get women---- MISS L. It's the work least able to wait. MRS. H. I don't agree with you, and I happen to have spent a great deal of my life in works of charity. MISS L. Ah, then you'll be interested in the girl I saw dying in a Tramp Ward a little while ago. _Glad_ her cough was worse--only she mustn't die before her father. Two reasons. Nobody but her to keep the old man out of the workhouse--and "father is so proud." If she died first, he would starve; worst of all he might hear what had happened up in London to his girl. MRS. H. She didn't say, I suppose, how she happened to fall so low. MISS L. Yes, she had been in service. She lost the train back one Sunday night and was too terrified of her employer to dare ring him up after hours. The wrong person found her crying on the platform. MRS. H. She should have gone to one of the Friendly Societies. MISS L. At eleven at night? MRS. H. And there are the Rescue Leagues. I myself have been connected with one for twenty years---- MISS L. (_reflectively_). "Twenty years!" Always arriving "after the train's gone"--after the girl and the Wrong Person have got to the journey's end. (MRS. HERIOT's _eyes flash._) JEAN. Where is she now? LADY JOHN. Never mind. MISS L. Two nights ago she was waiting at a street corner in the rain. MRS. H. Near a public-house, I suppose. MISS L. Yes, a sort of "public-house." She was plainly dying--she was told she shouldn't be out in the rain. "I mustn't go in yet," she said. "_This_ is what he gave me," and she began to cry. In her hand were two pennies silvered over to look like half-crowns. MRS. H. I don't believe that story. It's just the sort of thing some sensation-monger trumps up--now, who tells you such---- MISS L. Several credible people. I didn't believe them till---- JEAN. Till----?