net or anything. Then I
should like you to wash your face thoroughly in plain soap and water and
never again touch a powder-puff or that nasty red stuff you have on your
lips. I should like you to throw away those fancy blouses with the
imitation lace, which are ugly to start with, and which you can't afford
to have washed often enough, and I should like you to buy some plain
linen shirts and collars, a black tie, and a blue serge skirt made so
that you could walk in it naturally."

Ellen did not at that moment need any rouge, nor any artificial means of
lending brightness to her eyes. What she really seemed to need was
something to keep her still.

"Anything else?" she demanded, unsteadily.

"Some thicker stockings, or, if not thicker, stockings without that
open-work stuff about them," Burton continued earnestly, warming now to
his task. "You see, the open-work places have all spread into little
holes, and one can't help noticing it, especially as your shoes are such
a bright yellow. That stuff that looks like lace at the bottom of your
petticoat has got all draggled. I should cut it off and throw it
away. Then I'd empty all that scent down the drain, and wear any sort
of gloves except those kid ones you have had cleaned so often."

"And my hat?" she asked with trembling lips. "What about my hat? Don't
leave that out."

"Burn it," he replied eagerly, "feathers and all. They've been dyed,
haven't they? more than once, and I think their present color is their
worst. It must be very uncomfortable to wear, too, with all those pins
sticking out of it. Colored glass they are made of, aren't they? They
are not pretty, you know. I'll buy you a hat, if you like, a plain felt
or straw, with just a few flowers. You'll look as nice again."

"Finished?"

He looked at her apprehensively.

"There are one or two things about the house--" he commenced.

Ellen began to talk--simply because she was unable to keep silent any
longer. The longer she talked, the more eloquent she became. When she
had finished, Burton had disappeared. She followed him to the door, and
again to the gate. Her voice was still ringing in his ears as he turned
the corner of the street.

CHAPTER IV

A SHOCK TO MR. WADDINGTON

Punctually at nine o'clock on the following morning, Alfred Burton,
after a night spent in a very unsatisfactory lodging-house, hung up his
gray Homburg on the peg consecrated to the support of his discarded silk
hat, and