"Oh, that is all right," the stranger said. "I'm a friend of Ralph Darnley's. He sent me a very long telegram today to a certain extent explaining the position of affairs, and asking me to meet you and place my services at your disposal. Perhaps you have heard Ralph speak of me, Connie Colam." "Only today," Mary said; "and then he did not allude to you by name. Still, it is very kind of you to take all this trouble, especially for a stranger like myself. How did you recognise me?" "There were what the Americans call 'pointers' in the telegram," Miss Colam laughed. "But please get in or we shall have the cabman abusive, and that is a consummation decidedly _not_ to be wished. Please drive to 16, Keppel Terrace." The rickety vehicle got under way at length to Mary's great relief. She laid her aching head back against the dirty cushions, wondering if in the whole weary world there was another girl as miserable and heartsick as she was. She raised her hot lids presently to the face of her companion. The critical edge was already dulled, but in no circumstances could Mary have disapproved of her companion. A very dainty and refined face was Connie Colam's, with a pleasant frank expression and a sensitive mouth. At the same time she did not lack in certain suggestions of courage and resolution. "I hope you approve of me," she said demurely. "I like your face, if that is what you mean," Mary replied. "I shall be able to thank you presently for all your spontaneous kindness. Meanwhile, I have the most dreadful headache. After we have found my rooms----" "Oh, your rooms are found already. For the present you are going to stay with me. We are going to join forces. My late chum has gone to Paris for a year, and you are going to occupy her bedroom. That is all arranged." Mary murmured something that was intended for gratitude. She had always professed a profound contempt for the helpless type of girl who lets things drift, but she was letting herself drift now with her eyes wide open. And though she was not prepared to admit it, she was almost hysterically glad of the companionship and sympathy of the stranger. As she stood on the platform a little time before, the horrible sense of desolation had gripped her, the awful feeling of loneliness that comes to the friendless in London. Yes, she was passionately glad of this companion. She did not even desire to know whether Connie came of a good family or not, her one idea now was to lie down and get rid of a wretched wearing headache. Where was her pride of race and station now? Where were the force and courage that rose above circumstances and fought physical weakness under? Mary was content to leave everything to her companion--the paying of the cabman, the arranging of her boxes, the setting out of her various treasures.