The night of their arrival was passed at the inn, in the Strand, where the coach had set them down.  The next morning Ned chose lodgings in Craven Street:  three rooms, constituting the entire first floor; which Madge, though she thought the house had a dingy look, found comfortable enough in their faded way; and wherein the two were installed by noon.  They spent the afternoon walking about the most famous streets, returning to their lodgings for dinner.

“I think,” said Ned, while they were eating, “’twon’t do any harm to get on one of your best gowns, and your furbelows, and we’ll go to the play, and begin the campaign this very night.”

“Bless me, no!  I’m tired to death with sightseeing,” replied Madge.  “I could fall asleep this moment.  Besides, who’s here to dress my hair?  I couldn’t go without a commode.”

“Oh, well, just as you like.  Only be pleased to remember, ma’am, my purse isn’t a widow’s mite—­widow’s cruse of oil, I mean, that runs for ever.  I’ve been at a great expense to bring you here, and pounds and shillings don’t rain from heaven like—­like that stuff the Jews lived on for forty years in the wilderness.  The sooner we land our fish, the sooner we’ll know where the money’s coming from.  I sha’n’t be able to pay for lodgings and meals very long.”

“Why, ’tis a pretty pass if you’ve no more money—­”

“Well, it is a pretty pass, and that’s just what it is.  I didn’t count the cost when I made the generous offer to bring you.  Oh, we can last a week or so yet, but the sooner something is done, the sooner we shall be easy in our minds.  On second thoughts, though, you’d better go to bed and rest.  It mightn’t be well to flash on the town to-night, looking fagged, and without your hair dressed, and all that.  So you go to bed and I’ll go around and—­call upon a few friends I made when I was here before.”

Ned had so improved his attire, by acquisitions in New York, Bristol, and London, that his appearance was now presentable in the haunts of gentlemen.  So he went out, leaving her alone.  She could no longer postpone meditating upon what was before her.

Now that she viewed it for the first time in definite particulars, its true aspect struck her with a sudden dismay.  She was expected to do nothing less than exhibit herself for sale, put herself up at auction for the highest bidder, set out her charms as a bait.  And when the bait drew, and the bidders offered, and the buyer awaited—­what then?  She would never, her pride alone would never let her, degrade herself to a position at the very thought of which she caught her breath with horror.  Come what may, the man who purchased her must put the transaction into the form of marriage.  True, she was already married, in the view of the law; but, with a woman’s eye for essentials, she felt her divorce from Philip already accomplished.  The law, she allowed, would have to be satisfied with matters of form:  but that was a detail to be observed when the time came; Philip would not oppose obstacles.