money of that ordinary, silly, little girl of no account." Well, it was
a desperate expedient--but she thought it worth while. And besides there
is hardly a woman in the world, no matter how hard, depraved or frantic,
in whom something of the maternal instinct does not survive, unconsumed
like a salamander, in the fires of the most abandoned passion. Yes there
might have been that sentiment for him too. There _was_ no doubt. So I
say again: No wonder! No wonder that she raged at everything--and
perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches: for regretting the
girl, a little fool who would never in her life be worth anybody's
attention, and for taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity in
which she perceived a flavour of revolt.

And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He
arguing "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a little
sorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket,
appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long as
possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already doomed luxury. There
was really no hurry for a few days. Always time enough to vanish. And,
with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard for
appearances surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently at the
last, Eliza." But there was no softness in the sallow face under the
gala effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed
eyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you
say then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, very
determined that there should be no more of that boy and girl philandering
since the object of it was gone; angry with herself for having suffered
from it so much in the past, furious at its having been all in vain.

But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was
the good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as