“It was on shirts they made acquaintance,” said Edith pensively.  “Louis was lodging on the second floor, she in the third floor back, and they used to pass on the stairs.  One day she heard him imploring the little slavey to put some buttons on his shirts.  The slavey tossed her head, and said she’d see about it.  When he’d gone out, Anna came downstairs, calmly demanded his shirts, and, having the slavey under her thumb, got them, walked off with them, and mended them all.  When Louis came home he discovered a neat heap reposing on his table.  Of course he wept—­whatever he may say.  But next morning Miss Anna found her shoes outside her door, blacked as they had never been blacked before, with a note inside one of them.  Affecting! wasn’t it?  Thenceforward, as long as they remained in those lodgings, Anna mended and Louis blacked.  Naturally, Anthony and I drew our conclusions.”

Marcella laughed.

“You must bring her to see me,” she said to Louis.

“I will,” said Louis, with some perplexity; “if I can get hold of her.  But when she isn’t stitching she’s writing, or trying to set up Unions.  She does the work of six.  She’ll earn nearly as much as I do when we’re married.  Oh! we shall swim!”

Anthony surveyed his radiant aspect—­so unlike the gentle or satirical detachment which made his ordinary manner—­with a darkening eye, as though annoyed by his effusion.

“Two hundred a year?” he said slowly; “about what Mr. Harry Wharton spends on his clothes, I should think.  The Labour men tell me he is superb in that line.  And for the same sum that he spends on his clothes, he is able to buy you, Louis, body and soul, and you seem inclined to be grateful.”

“Never mind,” said Louis recklessly.  “He didn’t buy some one else—­and I am grateful!”

“No; by Heaven, you shan’t be!” said Anthony, with a fierce change of tone. “You the dependent of that charlatan!  I don’t know how I’m to put up with it.  You know very well what I think of him, and of your becoming dependent on him.”

Marcella gave an angry start.  Louis protested.

“Nonsense!” said Anthony doggedly; “you’ll have to bear it from me, I tell you—­unless you muzzle me too with an Anna.”

“But I don’t see why I should bear it,” said Marcella, turning upon him.  “I think you know that I owe Mr. Wharton a debt.  Please remember it!”

Anthony looked at her an instant in silence.  A question crossed his mind concerning her.  Then he made her a little clumsy bow.

“I am dumb,” he said.  “My manners, you perceive, are what they always were.”

“What do you mean by such a remark,” cried Marcella, fuming.  “How can a man who has reached the position he has in so short a time—­in so many different worlds—­be disposed of by calling him an ugly name?  It is more than unjust—­it is absurd!  Besides, what can you know of him?”