“It will all come some day,” he assured her cheerfully.

“I think if you’d stayed different,” she went on thoughtfully, “if you hadn’t slipped away into the clouds ... shows what a selfish little beast I am!  Can’t imagine why you bother about me.”

“Shall I tell you why, really?” he asked.  “Because you saved me—­I don’t know what from.  The night we went out I was suffering from a loneliness which was the worst torture I have ever felt.  It was there in my throat and dragging down my heart, and I just felt as though any way of ending it all would be a joy.  All these millions of hard-faced people, intent on their own prosperity or their own petty troubles, goaded me, I think, into a sort of silent fury.  Just that one night I craved like a madman for a single human being to talk to—­well, I shall never forget it, Martha—­”

“Miss Grimes!” she interrupted under her breath.

He laughed.

“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asked.  “You’ve never been afraid that I should want to make love to you, have you?”

She glanced round into the mirror by their side, looked at her wan face, the shabby little hat, the none too tidily arranged hair which drooped over her ears; down at her shapeless jacket, her patched skirt, the shoes which were in open rebellion.  Then she laughed, curiously enough without any note of bitterness.

“Seems queer, doesn’t it, even to think of such a thing!  I’ve been up against it pretty hard, though.  A man who gives a meal to a girl, even if she is as plain as I am, generally seems to think he’s bought her, in this city.  Even the men who are earning money don’t give much for nothing.  But you are different,” she admitted.  “I’ll be fair about it—­you’re different.”

“You’ll be waiting for the work at nine o’clock to-morrow morning?” he asked, as indifferently as possible.

“I will,” she promised.

He leaned back and told her little anecdotes about the play, things that had happened to him during the last few weeks, speaking often of Elizabeth Dalstan.  By degrees the nervous unrest seemed to pass away from her.  When they had finished their meal and drunk their coffee, she was almost normal.  She smoked a cigarette and even accepted the box which he thrust into her hand.  When he had paid the bill, she rose a little abruptly.

“Well,” she said, “you’ve had your way, and a kind, nice way it was.  Now I’ll have mine.  I don’t want any politeness.  When we leave this place I am going to walk home, and I am going to walk home alone.”

“That’s lucky,” he replied, “because I have to be at the theatre in ten minutes to meet a cinema man.  Button up your coat and have a good night’s sleep.”

They left the place together.  She turned away with a farewell nod and walked rapidly eastwards.  He watched her cross the road.  A poor little waif, she seemed, except that something had gone from her face which had almost terrified him.  She carried herself, he fancied, with more buoyancy, with infinitely more confidence, and he drew a sigh of relief as he called for a taxi.