hy. He looked down at her
deprecatingly.

"Let me carry it," he suggested.

"Carry it?" she echoed. "What do you mean?--Oh, the cat; no, thank
you. He wouldn't like it: he hates strangers."

"Oh!" said Micky. He felt chagrined. "Is it a great pet?" he asked.

"Yes." She hunched her queer burden more closely under her arm. "It
isn't really mine," she explained. "But they were so unkind to it in
the house that I had to bring it."

Micky was dying to ask questions, but somehow it hardly seemed a
propitious moment. He did not speak again till they reached the little
cafe.

It was a quiet little downstairs place, and just now was almost
deserted.

Micky chose a corner table which was partially screened from the rest
of the room. As he stood up to take off his coat he looked at the girl
interestedly.

She was better than pretty, he decided with a little pleasurable
thrill; he could not remember when he had seen a face that appealed to
him so strongly in spite of its pathos and the tear stains round her
eyes.

And such sweet eyes they were!--really grey with dark lashes and
daintily pencilled brows. She looked up suddenly, meeting his earnest
regard.

"Well?" she said. There was a touch of defiance in her voice; the
colour had risen in her white cheeks.

"Well?" said Micky with a friendly smile.

He sat down opposite to her; he was thanking his lucky stars that the
Delands' message had reached him before he changed into evening
clothes; somehow as he looked at this girl he felt slightly ashamed of
his own lazy, luxurious life and the banking account which, like the
cruse of oil, never failed. That this girl had no surplus of this
world's goods he was certain, though she was neatly dressed and was
unmistakably a lady. Her gloves were worn and had been carefully
mended, and her coat looked far too thin for such a cold night.

"Well, what are we going to have?" he asked. It was surprising how
cheerful he felt. "And what about that wonderful cat of yours? By the
way, hasn't it got a name?"

She smiled faintly.

"I call him Charlie," she said.

"Charlie!" Micky's eyes twinkled. "Well, it's original, anyway," he
said with a chuckle. "And Charlie must have some milk, I suppose. I
say, he's a bit thin, isn't he?" he asked dubiously.

She had taken off the shawl which had been wrapped about it, and the
poor animal sat on her lap blinking in the light, a forlorn enough
specimen, with a long tail and fierce eyes.