in Pimlico from sitting at open windows or standing on doorsteps in order to escape the stuffiness of their houses.  They were mostly vulgar lodging-house people, who were enjoying their ease following upon the burden of the day; but Mavis found herself envying them, if only for the fact that their bodies were well supplied with food.  Hunger unloosed a savage rage within her, not only against everyone she encountered, but also against the conditions of her life.  “What was the use of being of gentle birth?” she asked herself, if this were all it had done for her.  She deeply regretted that she had not been born an ordinary London girl, in which case she would have been spared the possession of all those finer susceptibilities with which she now believed herself to be cursed, and which had prevented her from getting assistance from Perigal.  She lingered by the cook shop in Denbigh Street, where she thought that she had never smelt anything so delicious as the greasy savours which came from the eating-house.  It was only with a great effort of will that she stopped herself from spending her last one and sixpence (which she was keeping for emergency) in food.  When she reached the Wilton Road, she walked of a set purpose on the station side of that thoroughfare.  She feared that the restaurants opposite might prevail against her already weakened resolution.  By the time she reached the Victoria Underground Station, her hunger was no longer under control.  Her eyes searched the gutters greedily for anything that was fit to eat.  She glared wolfishly at a ragged boy who picked up an over-ripe banana, which had been thrown on the pavement.  The thought of the little one at home decided her.  She turned in the direction of the post-office, having at last resolved to wire to her lover for help.

“Well, I’m blowed!” said a familiar voice at her side.  Mavis turned, to see the ill-dressed figure of flat-chested, dumpy Miss Toombs.

“Miss Toombs!” she faltered.

“Didn’t you see me staring at you?”

“Of course not.  What are you doing in London?”

“I’m up here on a holiday.  I am glad to see you.”

“So am I. Good night.”

“Eh!”

“I must go home.  I said good night.”

“You are a pig.  I thought you’d come and have something to eat.”

“I’m not—­I’m not hungry.”

“Well, sit down by me while I feed.  I feel I want a jolly good blow out.”

They had reached the doors of the restaurant opposite the main entrance to the underground railway.  The issuing odours smote Mavis’s hesitation hip and thigh.

“I—­I really must be off,” faltered Mavis, as she stood stockstill on the pavement.

By way of reply, Miss Toombs shoved the unresisting Mavis through the swing doors of the eating house; then, taking the lead, she piloted her to a secluded corner on the first floor, which was not nearly so crowded as the downstair rooms.