Two days later Mary was unpacking her box at 14 Palace Gardens. No
sharpness, no slight now could prick her spirit; she had learned too
well; she would not face those streets again.

That was eighteen months, close upon two years ago. Wounds were
healing now; old-time brightness was coming back to laugh at present
discomforts. It was only now and again--as now--that she, driven by
some sudden stress, allowed her mind backwards to wander--bruising
itself in those dark passages.

The cab stopped. She with a start came to the present; gulped a sob;
was herself.

Mrs. Chater said: "Run in quickly and mix me a brandy-and-soda."




CHAPTER II.

Excursions In Vulgarity.


A violent dispute with the cabman set that disturbed heart yet more
wildly thumping in Mrs. Chater's bosom; the sight of her husband
uneasily mooning in the dining-room heated her wrath to wilder
bubblings.

Mr. Chater--a 'oly dam' terror in Mincing Lane, if his office-boy may