Still wearing the conical white hat of a pierrot, Florinda was sick.

The bedroom seemed fit for these catastrophes—­cheap, mustard-coloured, half attic, half studio, curiously ornamented with silver paper stars, Welshwomen’s hats, and rosaries pendent from the gas brackets.  As for Florinda’s story, her name had been bestowed upon her by a painter who had wished it to signify that the flower of her maidenhood was still unplucked.  Be that as it may, she was without a surname, and for parents had only the photograph of a tombstone beneath which, she said, her father lay buried.  Sometimes she would dwell upon the size of it, and rumour had it that Florinda’s father had died from the growth of his bones which nothing could stop; just as her mother enjoyed the confidence of a Royal master, and now and again Florinda herself was a Princess, but chiefly when drunk.  Thus deserted, pretty into the bargain, with tragic eyes and the lips of a child, she talked more about virginity than women mostly do; and had lost it only the night before, or cherished it beyond the heart in her breast, according to the man she talked to.  But did she always talk to men?  No, she had her confidante:  Mother Stuart.  Stuart, as the lady would point out, is the name of a Royal house; but what that signified, and what her business way, no one knew; only that Mrs. Stuart got postal orders every Monday morning, kept a parrot, believed in the transmigration of souls, and could read the future in tea leaves.  Dirty lodging-house wallpaper she was behind the chastity of Florinda.

Now Florinda wept, and spent the day wandering the streets; stood at Chelsea watching the river swim past; trailed along the shopping streets; opened her bag and powdered her cheeks in omnibuses; read love letters, propping them against the milk pot in the A.B.C. shop; detected glass in the sugar bowl; accused the waitress of wishing to poison her; declared that young men stared at her; and found herself towards evening slowly sauntering down Jacob’s street, when it struck her that she liked that man Jacob better than dirty Jews, and sitting at his table (he was copying his essay upon the Ethics of Indecency), drew off her gloves and told him how Mother Stuart had banged her on the head with the tea-cosy.

Jacob took her word for it that she was chaste.  She prattled, sitting by the fireside, of famous painters.  The tomb of her father was mentioned.  Wild and frail and beautiful she looked, and thus the women of the Greeks were, Jacob thought; and this was life; and himself a man and Florinda chaste.

She left with one of Shelley’s poems beneath her arm.  Mrs. Stuart, she said, often talked of him.

Marvellous are the innocent.  To believe that the girl herself transcends all lies (for Jacob was not such a fool as to believe implicitly), to wonder enviously at the unanchored life—­his own seeming petted and even cloistered in comparison—­to have at hand as sovereign specifics for all disorders of the soul Adonais and the plays of Shakespeare; to figure out a comradeship all spirited on her side, protective on his, yet equal on both, for women, thought Jacob, are just the same as men—­innocence such as this is marvellous enough, and perhaps not so foolish after all.