Sheila had let him put her into the big creaking leather chair.  She sat with a handkerchief clenched in both her hands, upon which he, drawing up the other chair, now placed one of his.  She kept her head down, for she was ashamed of the pale, stained, and distorted little face which she could not yet control.

“Now, then, girl ...  Well, if you won’t talk to me, I’ll just light up and wait.  I’m a patient man, I am.  Don’t hurry yourself any.”

He withdrew his hand and took out a cigar.  In a moment he was sitting on the middle of his spine, his long legs sprawled half across the room, his hands in his pockets, his head on the chair-back so that his chin pointed up to the ceiling.  Smoke rose from him as from a volcano.

Sheila presently laughed uncertainly.

“That’s better,” he mumbled around his cigar.

“I’ve had a dreadful day,” said Sheila.

“You won’t have any more of them, my dear,” Sylvester promised quietly.

She looked at him with faint hope.

“Yes’m, dish-washing’s dead.”

“But what can I do, then?”

Hudson nodded his head slowly, or, rather, he sawed the air up and down with his chin.  He was still looking at the ceiling so that Sheila could see only the triangle beneath his jaw and the dark, stringy neck above his collar.

“I’ve got a job for you, girl—­a real one.”

He pulled out his cigar and sat up.  “You remember what I told you the other night?”

“About my being a—­a—­beacon?” Sheila’s voice was delicately tinged with mockery.  So was her doubtful smile.

“Yes’m,” he said seriously.  “Well, that’s it.”

“What does a beacon do?” she asked.

“It burns.  It shines.  It looks bright.  It wears the neatest little black dress with a frilly apron and deep frilly cuffs.  Say, do you recollect something else I told you?”

“I remember everything you told me.”

“Well, ma’am, I remember everything you told me.  Somebody said she was grateful.  Somebody said she’d do anything for Pap.  Somebody said—­’Try me.’”

“I meant it, Mr. Hudson.  I did mean it.”

“Do you mean it now?”

“Yes.  I—­I owe you so much.  You’re always so very kind to me.  And I behave very badly.  I was hateful to you this evening.  And, when you came to my door, just now, I was—­I was scared.”

Pap opened his eyes at her, held his cigar away from him and laughed.  The laugh was both bitter and amused.

“Scared of Pap Hudson? You scared?  But, look-a-here, girl, what’ve I done to deserve that?”

He sat forward, rested his chin in his hand, supported by an elbow on his crossed knees and fixed her with gentle and reproachful eyes.

“Honest, you kind of make me feel bad, Miss Sheila.”

“I am dreadfully sorry.  It was horrid of me.  I only told you because I wanted you to know that I’m not worth helping.  I don’t deserve you to be so kind to me.  I—­I must be disgustingly suspicious.”