She was handsome, to say the least.  If tired ghosts of departed barristers were haunting the dingy room in Hare Court that night, they must have blinked and quivered for sheer pleasure at what they saw, for Mr. Van Torp’s visitor was a very fine creature to look at; and if ghosts can hear, they heard that her voice was sweet and low, like an evening breeze and flowing water in a garden, even in the Garden of Eden.

She was handsome, and she was young; and above all she had the freshness, the uncontaminated bloom, the subdued brilliancy of nature’s most perfect growing things.  It was in the deep clear eyes, in the satin sheen of her bare shoulders under the sordid gaslight; it was in the strong smooth lips, delicately shaded from salmon colour to the faintest peach-blossom; it was in the firm oval of her face, in the well-modelled ear, the straight throat and the curving neck; it was in her graceful attitude; it was everywhere.  ‘No doubt,’ the ghosts might have said, ’there are more beautiful women in England than this one, but surely there is none more like a thoroughbred and a Derby winner!’

‘You take sugar, don’t you?’ asked Mr. Van Torp, having got the lid off the old tobacco-tin with some difficulty, for it had developed an inclination to rust since it had last been moved.

‘One lump, please,’ said the thoroughbred, looking at the fire.

‘I thought I remembered,’ observed the millionaire.  ‘The tea’s good,’ he added, ‘and you’ll have to excuse the cup.  And there’s no cream.’

‘I’ll excuse anything,’ said the lady, ‘I’m so glad to be here!’

‘Well, I’m glad to see you too,’ said Mr. Van Torp, giving her the cup.  ‘Crackers?  I’ll see if there’re any in the cupboard.  I forgot.’

He went to the corner again and found a small tin of biscuits, which he opened and examined under gaslight.

‘Mouldy,’ he observed.  ’Weevils in them, too.  Sorry.  Does it matter much?’

‘Nothing matters,’ answered the lady, sweet and low.  ’But why do you put them away if they are bad?  It would be better to burn them and be done with it.’

He was taking the box back to the cupboard.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said reluctantly.  ’But it always seems wicked to burn bread, doesn’t it?’

‘Not when it’s weevilly,’ replied the thoroughbred, after sipping the hot tea.

He emptied the contents of the tin upon the coal fire, and the room presently began to smell of mouldy toast.

‘Besides,’ he said, ’it’s cruel to burn weevils, I suppose.  If I’d thought of that, I’d have left them alone.  It’s too late now.  They’re done for, poor beasts!  I’m sorry.  I don’t like to kill things.’

He stared thoughtfully at the already charred remains of the holocaust, and shook his head a little.  The lady sipped her tea and looked at him quietly, perhaps affectionately, but he did not see her.

‘You think I’m rather silly sometimes, don’t you?’ he asked, still gazing at the fire.