easy
chair, gave him a cup of tea--"Three lumps, please," he said--and seated
herself opposite him and smiled on him with the sweetness that is as
indefinable as it is irresistible. Mr. Clendon, who played in the
orchestra at the Hilarity Theatre of Varieties, just below Brown's
Buildings, being a gentleman as well as a broken-down fiddler, was
conscious of, and appreciated, the subtle manner. He sat quite silent
for a time, then, as his eyes wandered to the violets, he said:

"They smell of the country."

Celia nodded. "Yes; that is why I bought them. It doesn't often run to
the luxury of flowers; but I could not resist them."

"You are fond of the country?" he said.

"Oh, yes!" she responded, turning her eyes to the fire. "I have lived
there all my life, until--until quite recently--until I came here." She
was silent for a moment or so. This old man was the only person she knew
in Brown's Buildings; they had made acquaintance on the stairs, and they
had now and again borrowed little things--sugar, salt, a candle--from
each other. She liked him, and--she was a woman and only twenty-two--she
craved for some companionship, someone on whom she could bestow the
gentle word and the smile which all good women and true long to give. At
this moment she wanted to tell him something of her past life; but she
hesitated; for when one is poor and alone in the world, one shrinks
keenly from speaking of the happiness that is past. But the longing was
too much for her. "I used to live in Berkshire."

She paused, and stifled a sigh.

"My father bought a house there; we had plenty of money--I mean, at that
time." She coloured and was silent again for a moment. "My father was a
business man and very lucky--for a time. Then luck changed. When he
died, nearly six months ago, we found that he was ruined; he left very
little, only a few pounds."

The old man nodded again.

"I understand," he said, with neither awkward sympathy nor intrusive
curiosity.

"I was an only child, and suddenly found myself alone in the world.
Oh, of course, there were relatives and friends, and some of them
were kind, oh, very kind"--once more Mr. Clendon nodded, as if he
understood--"but--but I felt that I would rather make my own way. I dare
say it was foolish; there have been times when I have been tempted
to--to accept help--throw up the sponge," she smiled; "but--well, Mr.
Clendon, most of us dislike charity, I suppose."

"Some of us," he admitte