rwell. He did not like Betty much. He included her among
the poor creatures, the rubble.

'Oh, Mr Farwell, what's going to happen to Victoria,' cried Betty, with
tears in her voice. Then she put her hand against the railings of
Finsbury Circus. She had prepared a dignified little speech, and her
suffering had burst from her. The indignity of it.

'Happen? The usual thing in these cases. She'll get worse; the veins
will burst and she'll be crippled for life.'

Betty looked at him, her eyes blazing with rage.

'How dare you, how dare you?' she growled.

Farwell laughed.

'My dear young lady,' he said smoothly, 'it needs no doctor to tell you
what is wanted. Victoria must stop work, lie up, be well fed, live in
the country perhaps and her spirits must be raised. To this effect I
would suggest a pretty house, flowers, books, some music, say a
hundred-guinea grand piano, some pretty pictures. So that she may
improve in health it is desirable that she should have servants. These
may gain varicose veins by waiting on her, but that is by the way.'

Betty was weeping now. Tear after tear rolled down her cheeks.

'But all this costs money,' continued Farwell, 'and, as you are aware,
bread is very dear and flesh and blood very cheap. Humanity finds the
extraction of gold a toilsome process, whilst the production of children
is a normal recreation which eclipses even the charms of alcohol. There,
my child, you have the problem; and there is only one radical solution
to it.'

Betty looked at him, intuitively guessing the horrible suggestion.

'The solution,' said Farwell, 'is to complain to the doctor of insomnia,
get him to prescribe laudanum and sink your capital in the purchase of
half a pint. One's last investment is generally one's best.'

'Oh, I can't bear it, I can't bear it,' wailed Betty. 'She's so
beautiful, so clever.'

'Ah, yes,' said Farwell in his dreamy manner, 'but then you see when a
woman doesn't marry. . . .' He broke off, his eyes fixed on the grey
pavement. 'The time will come, Betty, when the earth will be not only
our eternal bed, but the fairy land where joyful flowers will grow. Ah!
it will be joyful, joyful, this crop of flowers born from seas of
blood.'

'But, now, now, what can we do with her?' cried Betty.

'I have no other suggestion if she will not fight,' growled Farwell in
his old manner. 'She must sink or swim. If she sinks she's to blame, I
suppose. In a world of pirates and cut-th