t for you,' she cried. 'You dare to touch me now, and
I'll bite you.'

'Come, come, Nelly, you mustn't be rude,' said Falconer.

'No, sir, I won't no more, leastways to nobody but she. It's she makes
me do all the wicked things, it is.'

She snapped her fingers in her face again, and then burst out crying.

'She will leave you alone now, I think,' said Falconer. 'She knows it
will be quite as well for her not to cross me.'

This he said very significantly, as he turned to the door, where he
bade them a general good-night. When we reached the street, I was too
bewildered to offer any remark. Falconer was the first to speak.

'It always comes back upon me, as if I had never known it before, that
women like some of those were of the first to understand our Lord.'

'Some of them wouldn't have understood him any more than the Pharisee,
though.'

'I'm not so sure of that. Of course there are great differences. There
are good and bad amongst them as in every class. But one thing is clear
to me, that no indulgence of passion destroys the spiritual nature so
much as respectable selfishness.'

'I am afraid you will not get society to agree with you,' I said,
foolishly.

'I have no wish that society should agree with me; for if it did, it
would be sure to do so upon the worst of principles. It is better that
society should be cruel, than that it should call the horrible thing a
trifle: it would know nothing between.'

Through the city--though it was only when we crossed one of the main
thoroughfares that I knew where we were--we came into the region of
Bethnal Green. From house to house till it grew very late, Falconer
went, and I went with him. I will not linger on this part of our
wanderings. Where I saw only dreadful darkness, Falconer always would
see some glimmer of light. All the people into whose houses we went
knew him. They were all in the depths of poverty. Many of them were
respectable. With some of them he had long talks in private, while I
waited near. At length he said,

'I think we had better be going home, Mr. Gordon. You must be tired.'

'I am, rather,' I answered. 'But it doesn't matter, for I have nothing
to do to-morrow.'

'We shall get a cab, I dare say, before we go far.'

'Not for me. I am not so tired, but that I would rather walk,' I said.

'Very well,' he returned. 'Where do you live?'

I told him.

'I will take you the nearest way.'

'You know London marvellously.'

'Pretty well