“I had no notion, Miss Arundel, that—­that—­of—­this,” Hudson began in a dry, jerky whisper.  “Believe me, I wouldn’t ‘a’ thought of intrudin’.  I ordered the picture there from your father a fortnight ago, and this was the day I was to come and give it a last looking-over before I came through with the cash, see?  I hadn’t heard he was sick even, much less”—­he cleared his throat—­“gone beyond,” he ended, quoting from the “Millings Gazette” obituary column.  “You get me?”

“Yes,” said Sheila, in her voice that in some mysterious way was another expression of the clear mistiness of her eyes and the suppleness of her body.  “You are Mr. Hudson.”  She twisted her hands together behind her back.  She was shivering with cold and nervousness.  “It’s done, you see.  Father finished it.”

Hudson gave the canvas an absent glance and motioned Sheila to a chair with a stiff gesture of his arm.

“You set down,” he said.

She obeyed, and he walked to and fro before her.

“Say, now,” he said, “I’ll take the picture all right.  But I’d like to know, Miss Arundel, if you’ll excuse me, how you’re fixed?”

“Fixed?” Sheila faltered.

“Why, yes, ma’am—­as to finances, I mean.  You’ve got some funds, or some relations or some friends to call upon—?”

Sheila drew up her head a trifle, lowered her eyes, and began to plait her thin skirt across her knee with small, delicate fingers.  Hudson stopped in his walk to watch this mechanical occupation.  She struggled dumbly with her emotion and managed to answer him at last.

“No, Mr. Hudson.  Father is very poor.  I haven’t any relations.  We have no friends here nor anywhere near.  We lived in Europe till quite lately—­a fishing village in Normandy.  I—­I shall have to get some work.”

“Say!” It was an ejaculation of pity, but there was a note of triumph in it, too; perhaps the joy of the gratified philanthropist.

“Now, look-a-here, little girl, the price of that picture will just about cover your expenses, eh?—­board and—­er—­funeral?”

Sheila nodded, her throat working, her lids pressing down tears.

“Well, now, look-a-here.  I’ve got a missus at home.”

Sheila looked up and the tears fell.  She brushed them from her cheeks.  “A missus?”

“Yes’m—­my wife.  And a couple of gels about your age.  Well, say, we’ve got a job for you.”

Sheila put her hand to her head as though she would stop a whirling sensation there.

“You mean you have some work for me in your home?”

“You’ve got it first time.  Yes, ma’am.  Sure thing.  At Millings, finest city in the world.  After you’re through here, you pack up your duds and you come West with me.  Make a fresh start, eh?  Why, it’ll make me plumb cheerful to have a gel with me on that journey ... seem like I’d Girlie or Babe along.  They just cried to come, but, say, Noo York’s no place for the young.”