ayed utterly from the subject of his appetite.

"I couldn't sleep last night for thinking of that poor Christina Coles,"
she said, "the char-woman told me yesterday that the child had been
obliged to go out and pawn some of her things in order to get the money
to pay her room rent."

With a start his mind swung back from the dream life to the actual. He
had not seen Christina for more than a week, and the thought of her
pierced his heart with a keen reproach.

"Good God, has it come to that?" he exclaimed.

"What hurts me most is not being able to do anything to help her,"
resumed Mrs. Trent, "she's so proud that I don't dare even ask her to a
meal for fear she'll take offence."

"But if it's so bad as that why doesn't she go home--she must have a
home."

"Oh, she has--but to go back, she feels, would mean that she's given up,
and the char-woman declares that she'll never give up so long as she's
alive."

"Well, she's a precious little fool," observed Trent, as he drank an
extra glass of claret.

But the thought of Christina was not to be so lightly put from him, and
before the afternoon was over he went up to the eighth landing and
knocked in vain at her door. She was still out, as the little pile of
rejected manuscript lying on her threshold bore witness; and he turned
away and came down again with a disappointment of which he felt himself
to be half ashamed. An hour later he ran against her when he was going
out into the street, and as she turned with her constrained little bow
and looked at him for an instant with her sincere blue eyes, he was
almost overcome by the rush of pity which the sight of her evoked. How
pale and thin she had grown! how shabby her little tan coat looked in
the daylight; and yet what a charming curve there was to her brown
head! He realised then for the first time that brown--warm, living brown
with glints of amber--was the one colour for a woman's hair.

The next morning he rushed off indignantly to upbraid Adams.

"The girl's starving, I tell you--we can't let her starve," he exclaimed
in an agony of remorse.

"Oh, yes we can," returned Adams with a cheerful brutality which enraged
the younger man. "Starving isn't half so bad as writing trash. But you
needn't look at me like that," he added, "she doesn't come here any
longer now. She told me fiction was the field she meant to dig in."

"Well, you'll kill her among you," was Trent's threatening rejoinder;
and filled with a ri