on insult had been heaped on her. She had been made the butt of one
man's senseless joke or lie, whatever it might be; the butt of another
man's infamous passion.

"Oh!" she said, "Oh!" She clasped her cheeks between her hands, and
stared at her reflection with wide grey eyes. "I hate myself! I hate
this face of mine that invites such--such--" She shuddered, and moaned
softly to herself.

Beauty, why should women want it, unless they are rich and well placed,
carefully protected? Beauty to a poor girl is added danger. She would be
a thousand, a million times better and happier without it.

She grew calmer presently. She must think. To-morrow the money for her
board here would be due, and she had not enough to pay. She would not
ask Slotman for the wages for this week, never would she ask anything of
that man, never see him again.

Then what lay before her? She sat down and put her elbows on the
dressing table with its dingy cheap lace cover, and in doing so her eyes
fell on a letter, a letter that had been placed here for her.

It was from General Bartholomew, an answer to the appeal she had written
him at the same time that she had written to Lady Linden. It came now,
kindly, friendly and even affectionate, at the very eleventh hour.

"I was away, my dear child, when your letter came. It was
forwarded to Harrogate to me. Now I am back in London again. Your
father was my very dear friend; his daughter has a strong claim on
me, so pack your things, my dear, and come to me at once. I am an