othing left for her
to live on. It was one of those grotesque episodes that did not seem
to belong in her life--something which ought not--that could not
happen to her. At moments, however, she realised that it had
happened--realised that part of the nightmare had been happening for
some time--that for a good while now, she had always been more or less
hungry, even after a rather reckless orgy on crackers and milk.

Except that she felt a little fatigued there was in her no tendency to
accept the _chose arrivee_, no acquiescence in the _fait accompli_,
nothing resembling any bowing of the head, any meek desire to kiss the
rod; only a still resentment, a quiet but steady anger, the new and
cool opportunism that hatches recklessness.

What channel should she choose? That was all that chance had left for
her to decide,--merely what form her recklessness should take.

Whatever of morality had been instinct in the girl now seemed to be in
absolute abeyance. In the extremity of dire necessity, cornered at
last, face to face with a world that threatened her, and watching it
now out of cool, intelligent eyes, she had, without realising it,
slipped back into her ragged childhood.

There was nothing else to slip back to, no training, no discipline, no
foundation other than her companionship with a mother whom she had
loved but who had scarcely done more for her than to respond vaguely
to the frankness of inquiring childhood.

Her childhood had been always a battle--a happy series of conflicts as
she remembered--always a fight among strenuous children to maintain
her feet in her little tattered shoes against rough aggression and
ruthless competition.

And now, under savage pressure, she slipped back again in spirit to
the school-yard, and became a watchful, agile, unmoral thing again--a
creature bent on its own salvation, dedicated to its own survival,
atrociously ready for any emergency, undismayed by anything that might
offer itself, and ready to consider, weigh, and determine any chance
for existence.

Almost every classic alternative in turn presented itself to her as
she lay there considering. She could go out and sell herself. But,
oddly enough, the "easiest way" was not easy for her. And, as a child,
also, a fastidious purity had been instinctive in her, both in body
and mind.

There were other and easier alternatives; she could go on the stage,
or into domestic service, or she could call up Captain Dane and tell