ho you're bringing in, but I suppose that doesn't
matter."

"No, it doesn't--when the bringing in is a matter of life and death,
perhaps! As long as I am here and Mrs. Mundy is here, any one can
come in who for the moment has nowhere else to go. Scarborough
Square has no walls around its houses. Whoever needs us is a
neighbor. The girl was ill."

My voice was indignant. There are times when Selwyn makes me
absolutely furious. He apparently takes pleasure in pretending to
have no heart. Then, too, he was talking and acting in such contrast
to the way I had expected him to talk and act at our first meeting
alone after the past weeks, that in amazement I stared at him. Of
self-consciousness or embarrassment there was no sign. It had
obviously not occurred to him that his acquaintanceship with a girl
he had given no evidence of knowing when I was present, and three
days later had been seen walking with on the street, absorbed in deep
and earnest conversation, was a matter I would like to have
explained. The density of men for a moment kept me dumb.

Selwyn has been reared in a school honest in its belief that a woman
is too fine and fair a thing to face life frankly; that personal
knowledge and understanding on her part of certain verities, certain
actualities, did the world no good and woman harm. But the woman of
whom he thought was the sheltered, cultured, cared-for woman of his
world. Protection of her was a man's privilege and obligation. Of
the woman who has to do her own protecting, fight her way through,
meet the demands of those dependent on her, he personally knew
little. It was what he needed much to know.

But because his handsome, haughty mother had lived in high-bred,
self-congratulatory ignorance of what she believed did not concern
her, and because he has for a sister, who's a step-sister, a silly,
snobby person, he is not justified in withholding from me what he
naturally withheld from them. One can be a human being as well as a
lady. It's this that is difficult to make him understand.

For a half-moment longer I looked at him, then away. Apparently he
had not heard what I said.

"I should not trouble you. I have no right, but I don't know what to
do. I've so long come to you--" He turned to me uncertainly.

"What is it?" I got up from the footstool and took my seat in the
corner of the sofa. "Why shouldn't you come to me?"

"You have enough on you now." He bit his lip. "It