cold nipped too close into her she would get up and
wrap herself in the horsecloth and read with savage application, rushing
to the core of the thought. She was no student, so she would skip a hard
word. Besides, in those moods, when the spirit bounds in the body like a
caged bird, words are felt, not understood.

Betty was still hovering round her, a gentle presence. She knew what was
going on and was frightened. A new Victoria was rising before her, a
woman very charming still, but extraordinary, incomprehensible. Often
Victoria would snub her savagely, then take her hand as they stood
together at the counter bawling for food and drink. And as Victoria grew
hard and strong, Betty worshipped her more as she would have worshipped
a strong man.

Yet Betty was not happy. Victoria lived now in a state of excitement and
hunger for solitude. She took no interest in things that Betty could
understand. Their Sunday walks had been ruthlessly cut now and then, for
the fury was upon Victoria when eating the fruits of the tree. When they
were together now Victoria was preoccupied; she no longer listened to
the club gossip, nor did she ask to be told once more the story of
Betty's early days.

'Do you know you're sweated?' she said suddenly one day.

Betty's eyes opened round and blue.

'Sweated,' she said. 'I thought only people in the East End were
sweated.'

'The world's one big East End,' snapped Victoria.

Betty shivered. Farwell might have said that.

'You're sweated if you get two pounds a week,' continued Victoria.
'You're sweated when you buy a loaf, sweated when you ride in a bus,
sweated when they cremate you.'

'I don't understand,' said Betty.

'All profits are sweated,' quoted Victoria from a pamphlet.

'But people must make profits,' protested Betty.

'What for?' asked Victoria.

'How are people to live unless they make profits?' said Betty. 'Aren't
our wages profits?'

Victoria was nonplussed for a moment and became involved. 'No, our wages
are only wages; profit is the excess over our wages.'

'I don't understand,' said Betty.

'Never mind,' said Victoria, 'I'll ask Mr Farwell; he'll make it clear.'

Betty shot a dark blue glance at her.

'Vic,' she said softly, 'I think Mr Farwell. . . .' Then she changed her
mind. 'I can't, I can't,' she thought. She crushed the jealous words
down and plunged.

'Vic, darling,' she faltered, 'I'm afraid you're not well. No, and not
happy. I've been thinki