Tim. Though they had tried to conceal it, secretly, she had seen, they
were relieved when she left. They had not accommodation for her;
latterly she had dispossessed of his bed a sailor son on leave from
his ship.

She left her box in the cloak-room; turned down Wilton Road from the
station; penetrated the narrow thoroughfares between Lupus Street and
the river; secured a bedroom with Mrs. Japes at six shillings a week.

Miss Ram at the Agency would have no more to do with her; had received
a furious letter from Mrs. Eyton-Eyton; showed in the ledger a cruel
line of red ink ruled through the page that began "Name: Mary
Humfray," and ended "Salary:--"

"But I don't know a soul in London."

"You had a very comfortable place. You threw it away. I have a
reputation for reliable employees which I cannot afford to risk."

A bow closed the interview.



XII.

It was her landlady's husband, an unshaven, shifty-looking horror, who
dealt her, as it seemed to her then, the last furious blow.

Returning one evening after an aimless search for employment in shops
that had earned her rude laughter for her utter inexperience and her