“But is there nothing to be done for that poor girl?”

His new acquaintance shrugged his shoulders.

“A broken jug,” said he; “—­you’ll never mend her.  She’s going to a cousin in London to see if she can get help; you’ve given her the means of getting there—­it’s all that you can do.  One knows too well what’ll become of her.”

Shelton said gravely,

“Oh! that’s horrible!  Could n’t she be induced to go back home?  I should be glad—­”

The foreign vagrant shook his head.

“Mon cher monsieur,” he said, “you evidently have not yet had occasion to know what the ‘family’ is like.  ‘The family’ does not like damaged goods; it will have nothing to say to sons whose hands have dipped into the till or daughters no longer to be married.  What the devil would they do with her?  Better put a stone about her neck and let her drown at once.  All the world is Christian, but Christian and good Samaritan are not quite the same.”

Shelton looked at the girl, who was sitting motionless, with her hands crossed on her bag, and a revolt against the unfair ways of life arose within him.

“Yes,” said the young foreigner, as if reading all his thoughts, “what’s called virtue is nearly always only luck.”  He rolled his eyes as though to say:  “Ah!  La, Conventions?  Have them by all means—­but don’t look like peacocks because you are preserving them; it is but cowardice and luck, my friends—­but cowardice and luck!”

“Look here,” said Shelton, “I’ll give her my address, and if she wants to go back to her family she can write to me.”

“She’ll never go back; she won’t have the courage.”

Shelton caught the cringing glance of the girl’s eyes; in the droop of her lip there was something sensuous, and the conviction that the young man’s words were true came over him.

“I had better not give them my private address,” he thought, glancing at the faces opposite; and he wrote down the following:  “Richard Paramor Shelton, c/o Paramor and Herring, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“You’re very good, sir.  My name is Louis Ferrand; no address at present.  I’ll make her understand; she’s half stupefied just now.”

Shelton returned to the perusal of his paper, too disturbed to read; the young vagrant’s words kept sounding in his ears.  He raised his eyes.  The plump hand of the lady with the Roman nose still rested on her lap; it had been recased in its black glove with large white stitching.  Her frowning gaze was fixed on him suspiciously, as if he had outraged her sense of decency.

“He did n’t get anything from me,” said the voice of the red-faced man, ending a talk on tax-gatherers.  The train whistled loudly, and Shelton reverted to his paper.  This time he crossed his legs, determined to enjoy the latest murder; once more he found himself looking at the vagrant’s long-nosed, mocking face.  “That fellow,” he thought, “has seen and felt ten times as much as I, although he must be ten years younger.”