r humble requests for teas and procure for
her the savage bullying of the customers, yet she remained placid
enough.

'It's a hard life,' she once said to Victoria, 'but I suppose it's got
to be.' This was her philosophy.

'But don't you want to get out of it?' cried Victoria the militant.

'I don't know,' said Betty. 'I might marry.'

'Marry,' sniffed Victoria. 'You seem to think marriage is the only way
out for women.'

'Well, isn't it?' asked Betty. 'What else is there?'

And for the life of her Victoria could not find another occupation for
an unskilled girl. Milliners, dressmakers, clerks, typists, were all
frightfully underpaid and overworked; true there were women doctors, but
who cared to employ them? And teachers, but they earned the wages of
virtue: neglect. Besides it was too late; both Victoria and Betty were
unskilled, condemned by their sex to low pay and hard work.

'It's frightful, frightful,' cried Victoria. 'The only use we are is to
do the dirty work. Men don't char. Of course we may marry, if we can, to
any of those gods if they'll share with us their thirty bob a week. Talk
of slaves! They're better off than we.'

Betty looked upon all this as rather wild, as a consequence of
Victoria's illness. Her view was that it didn't do to complain, and that
the only thing to do was to make the best of it. But she loved Victoria,
and it was almost a voluptous joy for her to help her friend to undress
every night, to tempt her with little offerings of fruit and flowers.
When they woke up, Betty would draw her friend into her arms and cover
her face with gentle kisses.

But as Victoria grew worse, stiffer, and slower, responding ever more
reluctantly to the demands made upon her all day at the P. R. R., Betty
was conscious of horrible anxiety. Sometimes her imagination would
conjure up a Victoria helpless, wasted, bedridden, and her heart seemed
to stop. But her devotion was proof against egoism. Whatever happened,
Victoria should not starve if she had to pay the rent and feed herself
on nine shillings or so a week until she was well again and beautiful as
she had been. Her anxiety increasing, she mustered up courage to
interview Farwell, whom she hated jealously. He had ruined Victoria, she
thought--made her wild, discontented, rebellious against the incurable.
Yet he knew her, and at any rate she must talk about it to somebody. So
she mustered up courage to ask him to meet at nine.

'Well?' said Fa