erself that same evening. She had
to pass an Italian eating-house where she used to go sometimes, before
she had any one depending on her, to have a two-shilling dinner--a
good meal, decently served. Now, when she was always hungry, this was
one of the places she had to hurry past; but even when she did not
look at it, she thought about it, and was tormented by the desire to
go in and eat enough just for once. Visions of thick soup, and fried
fish with potatoes, and roast beef with salad, whetted an appetite
that needed no whetting, and made her suffer an ache of craving
scarcely to be controlled. That day had been a particularly hungry
one. The coffee was done, every precious tea-leaf she had to husband
for Arthur, and the butter had also to be carefully economised because
a good deal was required for his crisp toast, which was unpalatable
without it. Beth lived principally on the crusts she cut off the
toast. When they were very stale, she steeped them in hot water, and
sweetened them with brown sugar. This mess reminded her of Aunt
Victoria's bread-puddings, and the happy summer when they lived
together, and she learnt to sit upright on Chippendale chairs. She
would like to have talked to Arthur of those tender memories, but she
could not trust herself, being weak; the tears were too near the
surface.

That day she had turned against her crusts, even with sugar, and had
felt no hunger until she got out into the air, when an imperious
craving for food seized upon her suddenly, and she made for the
Italian restaurant as if she had been driven. The moment she got
inside the place, however, she recovered her self-possession. She
would die of hunger rather than spend two precious shillings on
herself while there was that poor boy at home, suffering in silence,
gratefully content with the poorest fare she brought him, always
making much of all she did.

Beth got no farther than the counter.

"I want something savoury for an invalid," she said.

That evening, for the first time, Arthur sat up by the fire in the
grandfather chair with a blanket round him, and enjoyed a dainty
little feast which had been especially provided, as he understood, in
honour of the event.

"But why won't you have some yourself?" he remonstrated.

"Well, you see," Beth answered, "I went to the Italian restaurant when
I was out."

"Oh, did you?" he said. "That's right. I wish you would go every day,
and have a good hot meal. Will you promis