“She has had an awful time. She was left penniless in Weymouth.” “That is bad; but it is no cause for _stupidity_.” “I know. She doesn’t understand. She managed quite well with lodgers; she will never make boarders pay. It’s no use giving her hints. The house is full of people who don’t pay their bills. There are people here who have paid nothing for eighteen months. She has even lent them money.” “Is it possible?” he said gravely. “And the Irish journalist _can’t_ pay. He is a home-ruler.” “He is a most distinguished-looking man. Ah but she is _stupid_.” “She can’t _see_” said Miriam--he was _interested_; even in _these_ things. She dropped eagerly down amongst them. The whole evening and all their earlier interchange stood far off, shedding a relieving light over the dismal details and waiting to be resumed, enriched by this sudden excursion--“that when better people come she ought to alter things. It isn’t that she would think it wrong, like the doctor who felt guilty when he bought a carriage to make people believe he had patients, though of course speculation _is_ wrong”--she felt herself moving swiftly along, her best memories with her in the cheerful ring of her voice, their quality discernible by him, a kind of reply to all he had told her--“because she believes in keeping up appearances; but she doesn’t know how to make people comfortable.” She was creating a wrong impression but with the right voice. Without Miss Scott’s suggestions, the discomforts would never have occurred to her. “Ah she is _stupid_. That is the whole thing.” He sat forward stretching and contracting his hands till the muscles cracked; his eyes, flashing their unconcerned contemptuous judgment, were all at once the brilliant misty eyes of a child about to be quenched by sudden sleep. “_No_,” she said resentfully, “she wants good people, and when they come she has to make all she can out of them. If they stayed she would be able to afford to do things better. Of course they don’t come back or recommend her; and the house is always half empty. Her _best_ plan would be to fill it with students at a fixed low figure.” Miss Scott again ...... his attention was wandering... “The dead _flowers_,” he was back again, “in dirty water in a cracked vase; Sissie rushing out, while breakfast is kept waiting, to buy just enough butter for one meal.” “Really?” he giggled. “She has been most awfully good to me.” “Why not?” he chuckled. “Do you think you will go and see your Polish friend to-morrow?” She watched anxiously. “Yes” he conceded blinking sleepily at the end of a long yawn. “I shall perhaps go.” “He might be driven to desperation” she muttered. Her accomplished evening was trembling in the balance. Its hours had frittered away the horrible stranger’s chance.