xcellent terms, and had
exchanged a great deal of personal information. Mildred Vesper seemed
to be one of the most contented of young women. She had sisters and
brothers, whom she loved, all scattered about England in pursuit of a
livelihood; it was rare for any two of them to see each other, but she
spoke of this as quite in the order of things. For Miss Barfoot her
respect was unbounded.

'She had made more of me than any one else could have done. When I
first met her, three years ago, I was a simpleton; I thought myself
ill-used because I had to work hard for next to no payment and live in
solitude. Now I should be ashamed to complain of what falls to the lot
of thousands of girls.'

'Do you like Miss Nunn?' asked Monica.

'Not so well as Miss Barfoot, but I think very highly of her. Her zeal
makes her exaggerate a little now and then, but then the zeal is so
splendid. I haven't it myself--not in that form.'

'You mean--'

'I mean that I feel a shameful delight when I hear of a girl getting
married. It's very weak, no doubt; perhaps I shall improve as I grow
older. But I have half a suspicion, do you know, that Miss Barfoot is
not without the same weakness.'

Monica laughed, and spoke of something else. She was in good spirits;
already her companion's view of life began to have an effect upon her;
she thought of people and things in a more lightsome way, and was less
disposed to commiserate herself.

The bedroom which both were to occupy might with advantage have been
larger, but they knew that many girls of instinct no less delicate than
their own had to endure far worse accommodation in London--where
poverty pays for its sheltered breathing-space at so much a square
foot. It was only of late that Miss Vesper had been able to buy
furniture (four sovereigns it cost in all), and thus to allow herself
the luxury of two rooms at the rent she previously paid for one. Miss
Barfoot did not remunerate her workers on a philanthropic scale, but
strictly in accordance with market prices; common sense dictated this
principle. In talking over their arrangements, Monica decided to expend
a few shillings on the purchase of a chair-bedstead for her own use.

'I often have nightmares,' she remarked, 'and kick a great deal. It
wouldn't be nice to give you bruises.'

A week passed. Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful tone.
Virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at Rutland Street and at
Queen's Road; sh