“It’s drawin’ beautiful,” she declared.  “Well, I’m d—­” she caught herself up short.  “Well this is bally funny,” she said.  “Turn it, dearie.”

Julian obeyed, and they began to talk.  For the ice was broken now, and the lady was quite at her ease, and simple and human in her hospitalities.

“This is better than the bun,” Julian said.

“I believe you, dear.  And yet that bun did me a deal of good that mornin’.”

Her voice became suddenly reflective.

“A deal of good.”

“Are you often out at such a time?”

“Not I. But that night I’d—­well, I didn’t feel like bein’ indoors. 
There’s things—­well, there, it don’t matter.  That toast’s done, dearie. 
Bring it here, and let me butter it.”

Julian brought it, and cut another slice from the loaf.  He toasted while the lady buttered, a fine division of labour which drew them close together.  Jessie, meanwhile, attracted by these pleasant preparations, hovered about, wriggling in pathetic anxiety to share the good things of life.

“Anything wrong that night?” Julian said, carelessly.

The lady buttered, like an angry machine.

“Oh no, dearie,” she said.  “Make haste, or the tea’ll be as black as coal.  Jessie, you’re a pig!  I do spoil her.”

Julian called the little dog to him.  She came voraciously, her minute and rat-like body tense with greed.

“She’s a pretty dog,” he said.

“Yes,” the lady rejoined proudly.  “She’s a show dog.  She was give to me, and I wouldn’t part with her for nuts, no, nor for diamonds neither.  Would I, Jessie?  Ah, well, dogs stick to you when men don’t.”

She was trying to be arch, but her voice was really quivering to tears, and in that sentence rang all the tragedy of her poor life.  Julian looked across at her as she sat by the tray, buttering now almost mechanically.  She was naturally a pretty girl, but was growing rapidly haggard, and was badly made up, rouged in wrong places consumptively, powdered everywhere disastrously.  Her eyes were pathetic, but above them the hair was dreadfully dyed, and frizzed into a desolate turmoil.  She had a thin young figure and anxious hands.  As he looked Julian felt a profound pity and a curious manly friendship for her.  She had that saddest aspect of a human being about whom it doesn’t matter.  Only it matters about every living creature so much.

The lady caught his eye, and extended her lips in a forced smile.

“You never know your luck!” she cried.  “So it don’t do to be down on it.  Come on, dearie.  Now then for the tea.”

She poured it out, and Julian drew up to the table.  Already he felt oddly at home in this poor room, with this poor life, into which he longed to bring a little hope, a little safety.  Jessie sprang to his knees, and thence, naughtily, to the table, snuffling towards the plate of toast.  The lady drew it away and approached it to her nose by turns, playfully.