"I have forgotten," she said, spreading out her hands.

"Don't you know any one else in London?" I asked.

She shook her head mournfully. "And I am getting so hungry."

I suggested that there were restaurants in London.

"But I have no money," she objected. "No money and nothing at
all but this." She designated her dress. "Isn't it ugly?"

"It is decidedly not becoming," I admitted.

"Well, what must I do? You tell me and I do it. If you don't
tell me, I must die."

She leaned back placidly, having thus put upon my shoulders the
responsibility of her existence. I did not know which to admire
more, her cool assurance or the stoic fortitude with which she
faced dissolution.

"I can give you some money to keep you going for a day or two,"
said I, "but as for finding Harry, without knowing his name--"

"After all I don't want so very much to find him," said this
amazing young person. "He made me stay in my cabin all the time
I was in the steamer. At first I was glad, for it went up and
down, side to side, and I thought I would die, for I was so sick;
but afterwards I got better--"