“Yes,” she said.  “They offered me a position—­if I would write a ‘heart-interest’ story of my life—­signing it and concealing nothing.”

The young man nodded.  “I know and I saw your eyes as you refused.  I’m not talking as a reporter now, but as a human being.  You won’t make any mistake by trusting me, Miss Burton.  Is it so bad as all that with you?  Hunting a job?”

The girl had by this time attained a certain reliance in her own abilities of human appraisement.  She believed what young Smitherton said and she answered with equal frankness.

“It is so bad that we face sheer starvation, that’s all.”

After a keen glance at her he observed quietly:  “At this moment you are not overfed.”

“N—­no.”  A faint amusement lighted her pupils as she answered, “I’m not—­well, exactly gorged.”

“Now I want to talk to you, and you needn’t hesitate about telling me things.”  There was a frank boyishness about this young man, and his manner reminded her of Edwardes.  She thought his eyes had something of that same straight fearlessness and honesty.  “You are going with me from here to a little restaurant I know, near by, and you are going to hear me out.  I know that you’re going through sheer hell, and I know a game scrapper when I meet one whether it be a man or woman.  This business teaches a fellow several things.”

In the end she went.

CHAPTER XXXI

An hour later she felt as if she had known Smitherton for a long while and could rely upon him.  Then he lighted a cigar and said slowly:  “I have taken all this time and said nothing useful.  I did it deliberately—­because what comes next will sound so cruel that I wouldn’t say it if the reason wasn’t sufficient.  I’m going to hurt you—­but only as the dentist or surgeon might hurt you.  Shall I go on?”

She looked at him across the table and since cowardice had no place in her composition braced herself and nodded her acquiescence.

“You don’t get much help from your brother.  It’s not his fault, perhaps, but it’s true.  You get none at all from your father.  Your mother is in a condition of mental derangement.  It’s up to you.  You’ve walked your feet sore seeking honest employment—­and you’ve met with failure and affront.  Now I’m coming to it and I’m going to put it plain.  In this town of New York there is just one opening for you.  One thing will bring you handsome returns:  nurses for your mother—­comfort for your father—­but it will be an ordeal.  You must capitalize your beauty and the publicity that attaches to your name.”

Mary Burton’s lovely face grew paler, and, fearing interruption, the man rushed on.  “I don’t mean in the way the Sunday editor suggested.  I mean the stage.  I eke out my revenue in Park row with some press-agent work, and I happen to know what I’m talking about.  Mary Burton is one of the most advertised names in the city.  To a manager it would be worth whatever it cost.”