showed, a respect for her, which might appear startling were it seen in
Berkeley Square or the Strand.

When, therefore, O'Fallen came raging into the barroom one morning, with
the gentle remark that "he'd roast the tongue of her fancy gent if he
didn't get up and git," he did a foolish thing. It was the first time
that he had insulted Victoria, and it was the last. She came out white
and quiet from behind the bar-counter, and, as he retreated from her into
a corner, said: "There is not a man who drinks over this bar, or puts
his horse into your shed, who wouldn't give you the lie to that and
thrash you as well--you coward!" Her words came on low and steady: "Mr.
Jones will go now, of course, but I shall go also."

This awed O'Fallen. To lose Vic was to lose the reputation of his house.
He instantly repented, but she turned her shoulder on him, and went into
the little hot office, where the book-keeper was, leaving him
gesticulating as he swore at himself in the glass behind the bar. When
she entered the room she found Mr. Jones sitting rigid on his stool,
looking at the open ledger before him. She spoke his name. He nodded
ever so slightly, but still looked hard at the book. She knew his
history. Once he had told it to her. It happened one day when he had
resigned his position as boundary-rider, in which he was practically
useless. He had been drinking, and, as he felt for the string of his
eye-glass, his fingers caught another thin black cord which protruded
slightly from his vest. He drew it out by mistake, and a small gold
cross shone for a moment against the faded black coat. His fingers felt
for it to lift it to his eye as though it were his eye-glass, but dropped
it suddenly. He turned pale for a minute, then caught it as suddenly
again, and thrust it into his waistcoat. But Vic had seen, and she had
very calm, intelligent eyes, and a vast deal of common sense, though she