Philip stepped into his own little bedroom and made scanty preparations for this, his first excursion.  Then he made his way down into the shabby hall and was seated there on the worn settee when his guest descended.  She was wearing a hat which, so far as he could judge, was almost becoming.  Her gloves, notwithstanding their many signs of mending, were neat, her shoes carefully polished, and although her dress was undeniably shabby, there was something in her carriage which pleased him.  Her eyes were fixed upon his from the moment she stepped from the lift.  She was watching for his expression half defiantly, half anxiously.

“Well, you see what I look like,” she remarked brusquely.  “You can back out of it, if you want to.”

“Don’t be silly,” he replied.  “You look quite all right.  I’m not much of a beau myself, you know.  I bought this suit over the counter the other day, without being measured for it or anything.”

“Guess you ain’t used to ready-made clothes,” she observed, as they stepped outside.

“You see, in England—­and the Colonies,” he added hastily, “things aren’t so expensive as here.  What a wonderful city this is of yours, Martha!”

“Miss Grimes, please,” she corrected him.

“I beg your pardon,” he apologised.

“That’s just what I was afraid of,” she went on querulously.  “You’re beginning already.  You think because you’re giving me a meal, you can take all sorts of liberties.  Calling me by my Christian name, indeed!”

“It was entirely a slip,” he assured her.  “Tell me what theatre that is across the way?”

She answered his question and volunteered other pieces of information.  Philip gazed about him, as they walked along Broadway, with the eager curiosity of a provincial sightseer.  She laughed at him a little scornfully.

“You’ll get used to all the life and bustle presently,” she told him.  “It won’t seem so wonderful to you when you walk along here without a dollar to bless yourself with, and your silly plays come tumbling back.  Now this is the Martin House.  My!  Looks good inside, don’t it?”

They crossed the threshold, Philip handed his hat to the attendant and they stood, a little undecided, at the top of the brilliantly-lit room.  A condescending maitre d’hotel showed them to a retired table in a distant corner, and another waiter handed them a menu.

“You know, half of this is unintelligible to me,” Philip confessed.  “You’ll have to do the ordering—­that was our bargain, you know.”

“You must tell me how much you want to spend, then?” she insisted.

“I will not,” he answered firmly.  “What I want is a good dinner, and for this once in my life I don’t care what it costs.  I’ve a few hundred dollars in my pocket, so you needn’t be afraid I shan’t be able to pay the bill.  You just order the things you like, and a bottle of claret or anything else you prefer.”