d her. She would watch
Victoria and see her face grow paler, except at the cheeks where a flush
would rise. A wild look would come into her eyes. Sometimes she would
get up suddenly and, thrusting her hair out of her eyes, walk up and
down muttering things Betty could not understand.

One night Betty woke up suddenly, and saw Victoria standing in the
moonlight clad only in her nightgown. Words were surging from her lips.

'It's no good. . . . I can't go on. . . . I can't go on until I die or
somebody marries me. . . . I won't marry: I won't do it. . . . Why
should I sell myself? . . . at any rate why should I sell myself
cheaply?'

There was a pause. Betty sat up and looked at her friend's wild face.

'What's it all mean after all? I'm only being used. Sucked dry like an
orange. By and by they'll throw the peel away. Talk of brotherhood! . .
. It's war, war . . . It's climbing and fighting to get on top . . .
like crabs in a bucket, like crabs. . .'

'Vic,' screamed Betty.

Victoria started like a somnambulist aroused and looked at her vaguely.

'Come back to bed at once,' cried Betty with inspired firmness. Victoria
obeyed. Betty drew her down beside her under the horsecloth and threw
her arms round her; Victoria's body was cold as ice. Suddenly she burst
into tears; and Betty, torn as if she saw a strong man weep, wept too.
Closely locked in one another's arms they sobbed themselves to sleep.

CHAPTER XXIII

EVERY day now Victoria's brain grew clearer and her body weaker. A
sullen spirit of revolt blended with horrible depression was upon her,
but she was getting thinner, paler; dark rings were forming round her
eyes. She knew pain now; perpetual weariness, twitchings in the ankles,
stabs just above the knee. In horrible listlessness she dragged her
weary feet over the tiled floor, responding to commands like the old cab
horse which can hardly feel the whip. In this mood, growing churlish,
she repulsed Betty, avoided Farwell and tried to seclude herself. She no
longer walked Holborn or the Strand where life went by, but sought the
mean and silent streets, where none could see her shamble or where none
would care.

One night, when she had left at six, she painfully crawled home and up
into the attic. At half-past nine the door opened and Betty came in; the
room was in darkness, but something oppressed her; she went to the
mantlepiece to look for the matches, her fingers trembling. For an
eternity sh