Once, truly, he attempted it, and it was she who refused the glittering thing.  He rarely came uninvited to her flat, for obvious reasons; but one night she heard him on the stairs as she got ready for bed.  He was walking unsteadily, and she thought at first that he had been drinking.  She opened to him with the carelessness her life had taught her, her costume off, and her black hair all about her shoulders.  “Go in and wait, Peterr,” she said; “I come.”

She had slipped on a coloured silk wrap, and gone in to the sitting-room to find him pacing up and down.  She smiled.  “Sit down, mon ami,” she said; “I will make the coffee.  See, it is ready.  Mais vraiment, you shall drink cafe noir to-night.  And one leetle glass of this—­is it not so?” and she took a green bottle of peppermint liqueur from the cupboard.

“Coffee, Louise,” he said, “but not the other.  I don’t want it.”

She turned and looked more closely at him then.  “Non,” she said, “pardon.  But sit you down.  Am I to have the wild beast prowling up and down in my place?”

“That’s just it, Louise,” he cried; “I am a wild beast to-night.  I can’t stand it any longer.  Kiss me.”

He put his arms round her, and bent her head back, studying her French and rather inscrutable eyes, her dark lashes, her mobile mouth, her long white throat.  He put his hand caressingly upon it, and slid his fingers beneath the loose lace that the open wrap exposed.  “Dear,” he said, “I want you to-night.”

“To-night, cherie?” she questioned.

“Yes, now,” he said hotly.  “And why not?  You give to other men—­why not to me, Louise?”

She freed herself with a quick gesture, and, brave heart, she laughed merrily.  The devil must have started at that laugh, and the angels of God sung for joy.  “Ah, non,” she cried, “It is the mistake you make.  I sell myself to other men.  But you—­you are my friend; I cannot sell myself to you.”

He did not understand altogether why she quibbled; how should he have done?  But lie was ashamed.  He slid into the familiar chair and ran his fingers through his hair.  “Forgive me, dear,” he muttered.  “I think I am mad to-night, but I am not drunk, as you thought, except with worrying.  I feel lost, unclean, body and soul, and I thought you would help me to forget—­no, more than that, help me to feel a man.  Can’t you, won’t you?” he demanded, looking up.  “I am tired of play-acting.  I’ve a body, like other men.  Let me plunge down deep to-night, Louise.  It will do me good, and it doesn’t matter.  That girl was right after all.  Oh, what a fool I am!”

Then did the girl of the streets set out to play her chosen part.  She did not preach at all—­how could she?  Besides, neither had she any use for the Ten Commandments.  But if ever Magdalene broke an alabaster-box of very precious ointment, Louise did so that night.  She was worldly wise, and she did not disdain to use her wisdom.  And when he had gone she got calmly into bed, and slept—­not all at once, it is true, but as resolutely as she had laughed and talked.  It was only when she woke in the morning that she found her pillow wet with tears.