ous," said the girl, "so am I. My father's a mill manager near
Bolton. You weren't educated there?"

"No," Joan admitted. "I went to Rodean at Brighton when I was ten years
old, and so escaped it. Nor were you," she added with a smile, "judging
from your accent."

"No," answered the other, "I was at Hastings--Miss Gwyn's. Funny how we
seem to have always been near to one another. Dad wanted me to be a
doctor. But I'd always been mad about art."

Joan had taken a liking to the girl. It was a spiritual, vivacious face
with frank eyes and a firm mouth; and the voice was low and strong.

"Tell me," she said, "what interfered with it?" Unconsciously she was
leaning forward, her chin supported by her hands. Their faces were very
near to one another.

The girl looked up. She did not answer for a moment. There came a
hardening of the mouth before she spoke.

"A baby," she said. "Oh, it was my own fault," she continued. "I wanted
it. It was all the talk at the time. You don't remember. Our right to
children. No woman complete without one. Maternity, woman's kingdom.
All that sort of thing. As if the storks brought them. Don't suppose it
made any real difference; but it just helped me to pretend that it was
something pretty and high-class. 'Overmastering passion' used to be the
explanation, before that. I guess it's all much of a muchness: just
natural instinct."

The restaurant had been steadily emptying. Monsieur Gustav and his ample-
bosomed wife were seated at a distant table, eating their own dinner.

"Why couldn't you have married?" asked Joan.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who was there for me to marry?" she
answered. "The men who wanted me: clerks, young tradesmen, down at
home--I wasn't taking any of that lot. And the men I might have fancied
were all of them too poor. There was one student. He's got on since.
Easy enough for him to talk about waiting. Meanwhile. Well, it's like
somebody suggesting dinner to you the day after to-morrow. All right
enough, if you're not troubled with an appetite."

The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customers
left. The man's tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticed
it before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with the
waiter, added a liqueur.

"But why should you give up your art?" persisted Joan. It was that was
sticking in her mind. "I should have thought that, if only for the