"I say," she began, and stopped.

"Yes?"

"I say--why ever did you come?"

The short question that expressed her wondering curiosity might well have driven any thoughtful man into tears. And Julian, young and careless as he often was, felt something of the terror and the pain enshrined in it.

But he did not let her see this.

"I wanted to have a talk with you," he answered.

"A talk; you like a talk with me?"

"Yes, surely."

She still stared at him with pathetic eyes. He had stood up.

"Oh," she said. "Well, dearie, I'm glad."

Julian took up his hat.

"I'm going out too," she said.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

She threw a sidelong glance at him, then added hardily, although her painted lips were suddenly quivering:

"I've got to go to work."

"I know," Julian said. "Well, I will wait till you are ready and drive you wherever you want to go."

"_Want_ to go," she began, with a little, shrill, hideous laugh. Then, pulling herself up, she added in a subdued voice:

"Thank you, dearie. I won't be long."

She opened the folding doors and pa.s.sed into the inner room, accompanied by Jessie. Julian waited for her. He found himself listening to her movements in the other room, to the creak of wood, as she pulled out drawers, to the rustle of a dress lifted from a hook, the ripple of water poured from a jug into a basin. He heard the whole tragedy of preparation, as this girl armed herself for the piteous battle of the London streets. And then his ears caught the eager patter of Jessie to and fro, and a murmured expostulation from her mistress.

Evidently the little dog had got hold of some article of attire and was worrying it. There was a hidden chase and a hidden capture. Jessie was scolded and kissed. Then the sitting-room slowly filled with the scent of cherry-blossom. A toothbrush in action was distinctly audible. This tragedy had its comic relief, like almost all tragedies. Julian sighed and smiled, but his heart was heavy with the desolate and sordid wonder of life, as his mind heard--all over London--a thousand echoes of the bedchamber music of the lady of the feathers.

The folding doors opened wide and she appeared, freshly painted and powdered, crowned once again with the forest of ostrich tips, and holding the struggling Jessie in her arms.

"Jessie must go to basket," she said, and she dropped the dog into a tiny basket lined with red flannel, and held up a warning finger.

"Naughty--go bials!" she cried. "Go bials, Jessie."

"What's that?"

"Bials--by-bye. She don't like bein' left. Well, dearie, we've had a nice time."

Suddenly she put her hands on Julian's shoulders and kissed his mouth.

"I wish there was more like you," she whispered.

He kissed her too, and put his arms around her.

"If I give you something, will you--will you stay at home to-night, just to-night, with Jessie?" he said.

But she drew away and shook her head.

"I won't take it."

"Yes."

"I won't. No--we're pals--not--not the other thing. You're the only one I've got--of that kind. I won't spoil it--no, I won't."

Her decision was almost angry. Julian did not persist.

"I'll come again," he said.

She looked at him wistfully.

"Ah--but you won't," she answered.

"I will."

He spoke with energy. She nodded.

"I'd like you to."

Then they went out into the evening and hailed a hansom.

"Put me down at the Piccadilly end of Regent Street," said the lady of the feathers.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS VISITS VALENTINE

Julian was curiously touched by his interview in the Marylebone Road, and he did not fail to recount it to Valentine, whose delicate imagination would, he felt certain, feel the pity and the pain of it.

But Valentine did not respond to his generous emotion.

"I thought she looked a very degraded young person," he said, distantly.

"And not interesting. The woman who is falling is interesting. The woman who has reached the bottom, who has completely arrived at degradation, is dull enough."