“Little fool!” he exclaimed.  “Martha, do you know you’re the most obstinate, pig-headed, prejudiced, ill-tempered little beast I ever knew?”

“Then go along and leave me,” she insisted, stopping short, “if I’m all that.”

“You’re also a dear!”

She drew a little breath and looked at him fiercely.

“Now don’t be silly,” he begged.  “I’m starving.  I had no lunch so that I could dine early.  Here we are at Durrad’s.”

“I’m not going inside there with you,” she declared.

“Look here,” he expostulated, “are we going to do a wrestling act on the sidewalk?  It will be in all the papers, you know.”

“Spoil your clothes some, wouldn’t it?” she remarked, looking at them disparagingly.

“It would indeed, also my temper,” he assured her.  “We are going to have a cocktail, you and I, within two minutes, young lady, and a steak afterwards.  If you want to go in there with my hand on your neck, you can, but I think it would look better—­”

She set her feet squarely upon the ground and faced him.

“Mr. Ware,” she said, “I am in rags—­any one can see that.  Listen.  I will not go into a restaurant and sit by your side to have people wonder what woman from the streets you have brought in to give a meal to out of charity.  Do you hear that?  I can live or I can die, just by myself.  If I can’t keep myself, I’ll die, but I won’t.  Nothing doing.  You hear?”

She had been so strong and then something in his eyes, that pitying, half anxious expression with which he listened, suddenly seemed to sap her determination.  She swayed a little upon her feet—­she was indeed very tired and very weak.  Philip took instant advantage of her condition.  Without a moment’s hesitation he passed his arm firmly through hers, and before she could protest she was inside the place, being led to a table, seated there with her back to the wall, with a confused tangle of words still in her throat, unuttered.  Then two great tears found their way into her eyes.  She said nothing because she could not.  Philip was busy talking to the waiter.  Soon there was a cocktail by her side, and he was drinking, smiling at her, perfectly good-natured, obviously accepting her momentary weakness and his triumph as a joke.

“Got you in, didn’t I?” he observed pleasantly.  “Now, remember you told me the way to drink American cocktails—­one look, one swallow, and down they go.”

She obeyed him instinctively.  Then she took out a miserable little piece of a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

“What’s gone wrong?” he asked briskly.  “Tell me all about it.”

“Father went off on tour,” she explained.  “He left the rent owing for a month, and he’s been writing for money all the time.  The agent who comes round doesn’t listen to excuses.  You pay, or out you go into the street.  I’ve paid somehow and nearly starved over it.  Then I got this job after worrying about it Lord knows how long, and this evening I’m discharged.”