ublic benefactor's
whisky, of this other celebrity's beer: it seemed the only message the
people cared to hear. Even among the sirens of the pavement, she noticed
that the quiet and merely pretty were hardly heeded. It was everywhere
the painted and the overdressed that drew the roving eyes.

She remembered a pet dog that someone had given her when she was a girl,
and how one afternoon she had walked with the tears streaming down her
face because, in spite of her scoldings and her pleadings, it would keep
stopping to lick up filth from the roadway. A kindly passer-by had
laughed and told her not to mind.

"Why, that's a sign of breeding, that is, Missie," the man had explained.
"It's the classy ones that are always the worst."

It had come to her afterwards craving with its soft brown, troubled eyes
for forgiveness. But she had never been able to break it of the habit.

Must man for ever be chained by his appetites to the unclean: ever be
driven back, dragged down again into the dirt by his own instincts: ever
be rendered useless for all finer purposes by the baseness of his own
desires?

The City of her Dreams! The mingled voices of the crowd shaped itself
into a mocking laugh.

It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing her
out to one another, jeering at her, reviling her, threatening her.

She hurried onward with bent head, trying to escape them. She felt so
small, so helpless. Almost she cried out in her despair.

She must have walked mechanically. Looking up she found herself in her
own street. And as she reached her doorway the tears came suddenly.

She heard a quick step behind her, and turning, she saw a man with a
latch key in his hand. He passed her and opened the door; and then,
facing round, stood aside for her to enter. He was a sturdy, thick-set
man with a strong, massive face. It would have been ugly but for the
deep, flashing eyes. There was tenderness and humour in them.

"We are next floor neighbours," he said. "My name's Phillips."

Joan thanked him. As he held the door open for her their hands
accidentally touched. Joan wished him good-night and went up the stairs.
There was no light in her room: only the faint reflection of the street
lamp outside.

She could still see him: the boyish smile. And his voice that had sent
her tears back again as if at the word of command.

She hoped he had not seen them. What a little fool she was.

A little