He was leaning back in his chair, his head supported by his hand, his
eyes fixed curiously upon her. Her pallor was not wholly the pallor of
ill-health. In her beautiful eyes shone the fire of life. She laughed
at him softly and held out her hands for his inspection. They were
shapely enough, but her finger-tips were scotched and pricked.

"Here are the hall-marks of my trade. Others who work by my side have
fallen away. It is of their sufferings I have written. I myself am
physically very strong. It is the average person who counts."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"You have written and worked a great deal for your age. Are you still
in employment?"

"Of course! I left off at seven this evening. I have nothing else in
my life," she added simply, "but my work, our work, the breaking of
these vile bonds. I need no pleasures. I have never thought of any."

Her eyes suddenly dropped before his. A confusion of thought seemed to
have seized upon her. Maraton, too, conscious of the nature of his
imaginings, although innocent of any personal application, was not
wholly free from embarrassment.

"Perhaps you will think," he observed, "that I am asking too many
personal questions for a new acquaintance, but, after all, I must know
you, must I not? We are fellow workers in a great cause. The small
things do not matter."

She looked at him once more frankly. The blush had passed from her