"No; but they are pale."

"Well, then it is not a case of fainting. It _may_ be exhaustion."

"You know best. What shall we do?"

"Why, nothing. Yes; mind our own business."

"With all my heart; my business just now is to offer you some restorative--a gla.s.s of wine."

"Oh, yes! I think I see myself going into a public-house with you.

Besides, I don't believe in stimulants. Strength can only enter the human body one way. I know what is the matter with me."

"What is it?"

"I am not obliged to tell _you."_

"Of course you are not obliged; but you might as well."

"Well, then, it is Hunger."

"Hunger!"

"Hunger--famine--starvation. Don't you know English?"

"I hope you are not serious, madam," said Vizard, very gravely. "However, if ladies will say such things as that, men with stomachs in their bosoms must act accordingly. Oblige me by taking my arm, as you are weak, and we will adjourn to that eating-house over the way."

"Much obliged," said the lady, satirically, "our acquaintance is not _quite_ long enough for that."

He looked at her; a tall, slim, young lady, black merino, by no means new, clean cuffs and collar leaning against the chair for support, and yet sacrificing herself to conventional propriety, and even withstanding him with a pretty little air of defiance that was pitiable, her pallor and the weakness of her body considered.

The poor Woman-hater's bowels began to yearn. "Look here, you little spitfire," said he, "if you don't instantly take my arm, I'll catch you up and carry you over, with no more trouble than you would carry a thread-paper."

She looked him up and down very keenly, and at last with a slight expression of feminine approval, the first she had vouchsafed him. Then she folded her arms, and c.o.c.ked her little nose at him, "You daren't.

I'll call the police."

"If you do, I'll tell them you are my little cousin, mad as a March hare: starving, and won't eat. Come, how is it to be?" He advanced upon her.

"You can't be in earnest, sir," said she, with sudden dignity.

"Am I not, though? You don't know _me._ I am used to be obeyed. If you don't go with me like a sensible girl, I'll carry you--to your dinner--like a ruffian."

"Then I'll go--like a lady," said she, with sudden humility.

He offered her his arm. She pa.s.sed hers within; but leaned as lightly as possible on it, and her poor pale face was a little pink as they went.

He entered the eating-house, and asked for two portions of cold roast beef, not to keep her waiting. They were brought.

"Sir," said she, with a subjugated air, "will you be so good as cut up the meat small, and pa.s.s it to me a bit or two at a time."

He was surprised, but obeyed her orders.

"And if you could make me talk a little? Because, at sight of the meat so near me, I feel like a tigress--poor human nature! Sir, I have not eaten meat for a week, nor food of any kind this two days."

"Good G.o.d!"

"So I must be prudent. People have gorged themselves with furious eating under those circ.u.mstances; that is why I asked you to supply me slowly.

Thank you. You need not look at me like that. Better folk than I have _died_ of hunger. Something tells me I have reached the lowest spoke, when I have been indebted to a stranger for a meal."

Vizard felt the water come into his eyes; but he resisted that pitiable weakness. "Bother that nonsense!" said he. "I'll introduce myself, and then you can't throw _stranger_ in my teeth. I am Harrington Vizard, a Barfordshire squire."

"I thought you were not a c.o.c.kney."

"Lord forbid! Does that information ent.i.tle me to any in return?"

"I don't know; but, whether or no, my name is Rhoda Gale."

"Have another plate, Miss Gale?"

"Thanks."

He ordered another.

"I am proud of your confiding your name to me, Miss Gale; but, to tell the truth, what I wanted to know is how a young lady of your talent and education could be so badly off as you must be. It is not impertinent curiosity."

The young lady reflected a moment. "Sir," said she, "I don't think it is; and I would not much mind telling you. Of course I studied you before I came here. Even hunger would not make me sit in a tavern beside a fool, or a sn.o.b, or (with a faint blush) a libertine. But to tell one's own story, that is so egotistical, for one thing.

"Oh, it is never egotistical to oblige."

"Now, that is sophistical. Then, again, I am afraid I could not tell it to you without crying, because you seem rather a manly man, and some of it might revolt you, and you might sympathize right out, and then I should break down."

"No matter. Do us both good."

"Yes, but before the waiters and people! See how they are staring at us already."

"We will have another go in at the beef, and then adjourn to the garden for your narrative."

"No: as much garden as you like, but no more beef. I have eaten one sirloin, I reckon. Will you give me one cup of black tea without sugar or milk?"

Vizard gave the order.

She seemed to think some explanation necessary, though he did not.

"One cup of tea agrees with my brain and nerves," said she. "It steadies them. That is a matter of individual experience. I should not prescribe it to others any the more for that."

Vizard sat wondering at the girl. He said to himself, "What is she? A _lusus naturoe?"_

When the tea came, and she had sipped a little, she perked up wonderfully. Said she, "Oh, the magic effect of food eaten judiciously!

Now I am a lioness, and do not fear the future. Yes; I will tell you my story--and, if you think you are going to hear a love-story, you will be nicely caught--ha-ha! No, _sir;"_ said she, with rising fervor and heightened color, "you will hear a story the public is deeply interested in and does not know it; ay, a story that will certainly be referred to with wonder and shame, whenever civilization shall become a reality, and law cease to be a tool of injustice and monopoly." She paused a moment; then said a little doggedly, as one used to encounter prejudice, "I am a medical student; a would-be doctor."