unlike her father in many respects. Her features were rather heavy,
her mouth large but comely, her eyes dark and lustrous behind heavy
lashes. As she now appeared before Barnes, she was the typical stage
society woman: in other words, utterly commonplace. In a drawing-room
she would have been as conspicuously out of place as she was in her
present occupation.

"I am very sorry," he said lamely. "I have heard something of your
misfortunes from your father and--the others. It's--it's really hard
luck."

"I call it rather good luck to have got away with the only dress in
the lot that cost more than tuppence," she said, smiling again. "Lord
knows what would have happened to me if they had dropped down on us at
the end of the first act. I was the beggar's daughter, you see,--
absolutely in rags."

"You might have got away in your ordinary street clothes, however," he
said; "which would have been pleasanter, I dare say."

"I dare say," she agreed brightly. "Glad to have met you. I think
you'll find everything NEARLY all right. Good night, sir."

She smiled brightly, unaffectedly, as she turned toward the open door.
There was something forelorn about her, after all, and his heart was
touched.

"Better luck, Miss Thackeray. Every cloud has its silver lining."

She stopped and faced him once more. "That's the worst bromide in the