“Nice little restaurant, this,” she said.  “One of the few places where you can depend upon not being annoyed.”

Joan did not understand.  “In what way?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, men,” answered the girl.  “They come and sit down opposite to you, and won’t leave you alone.  At most of the places, you’ve got to put up with it or go outside.  Here, old Gustav never permits it.”

Joan was troubled.  She was rather looking forward to occasional restaurant dinners, where she would be able to study London’s Bohemia.

“You mean,” she asked, “that they force themselves upon you, even if you make it plain—­”

“Oh, the plainer you make it that you don’t want them, the more sport they think it,” interrupted the girl with a laugh.

Joan hoped she was exaggerating.  “I must try and select a table where there is some good-natured girl to keep me in countenance,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, I was glad to see you,” answered the girl.  “It’s hateful, dining by oneself.  Are you living alone?”

“Yes,” answered Joan.  “I’m a journalist.”

“I thought you were something,” answered the girl.  “I’m an artist.  Or, rather, was,” she added after a pause.

“Why did you give it up?” asked Joan.

“Oh, I haven’t given it up, not entirely,” the girl answered.  “I can always get a couple of sovereigns for a sketch, if I want it, from one or another of the frame-makers.  And they can generally sell them for a fiver.  I’ve seen them marked up.  Have you been long in London?”

“No,” answered Joan.  “I’m a Lancashire lass.”

“Curious,” said the girl, “so am I. My father’s a mill manager near Bolton.  You weren’t educated there?”

“No,” Joan admitted.  “I went to Rodean at Brighton when I was ten years old, and so escaped it.  Nor were you,” she added with a smile, “judging from your accent.”

“No,” answered the other, “I was at Hastings—­Miss Gwyn’s.  Funny how we seem to have always been near to one another.  Dad wanted me to be a doctor.  But I’d always been mad about art.”

Joan had taken a liking to the girl.  It was a spiritual, vivacious face with frank eyes and a firm mouth; and the voice was low and strong.

“Tell me,” she said, “what interfered with it?” Unconsciously she was leaning forward, her chin supported by her hands.  Their faces were very near to one another.

The girl looked up.  She did not answer for a moment.  There came a hardening of the mouth before she spoke.

“A baby,” she said.  “Oh, it was my own fault,” she continued.  “I wanted it.  It was all the talk at the time.  You don’t remember.  Our right to children.  No woman complete without one.  Maternity, woman’s kingdom.  All that sort of thing.  As if the storks brought them.  Don’t suppose it made any real difference; but it just helped me to pretend that it was something pretty and high-class.  ‘Overmastering passion’ used to be the explanation, before that.  I guess it’s all much of a muchness:  just natural instinct.”