“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said at length.  “I think I know that lady!” And, leaving his host, he crossed the room, bowed, accosted her, and sat down.  With Pharisaic delicacy, Shelton refrained from looking.  But presently Ferrand came back; the lady rose and left the restaurant; she had been crying.  The young foreigner was flushed, his face contorted; he did not touch his wine.

“I was right,” he said; “she is the wife of an old friend.  I used to know her well.”

He was suffering from emotion, but someone less absorbed than Shelton might have noticed a kind of relish in his voice, as though he were savouring life’s dishes, and glad to have something new, and spiced with tragic sauce, to set before his patron.

“You can find her story by the hundred in your streets, but nothing hinders these paragons of virtue”—­he nodded at the stream of carriages—­“from turning up their eyes when they see ladies of her sort pass.  She came to London—­just three years ago.  After a year one of her little boys took fever—­the shop was avoided—­her husband caught it, and died.  There she was, left with two children and everything gone to pay the debts.  She tried to get work; no one helped her.  There was no money to pay anyone to stay with the children; all the work she could get in the house was not enough to keep them alive.  She’s not a strong woman.  Well, she put the children out to nurse, and went to the streets.  The first week was frightful, but now she’s used to it—­one gets used to anything.”

“Can nothing be done?” asked Shelton, startled.

“No,” returned his companion.  “I know that sort; if they once take to it all’s over.  They get used to luxury.  One does n’t part with luxury, after tasting destitution.  She tells me she does very nicely; the children are happy; she’s able to pay well and see them sometimes.  She was a girl of good family, too, who loved her husband, and gave up much for him.  What would you have?  Three quarters of your virtuous ladies placed in her position would do the same if they had the necessary looks.”

It was evident that he felt the shock of this discovery, and Shelton understood that personal acquaintance makes a difference, even in a vagabond.

“This is her beat,” said the young foreigner, as they passed the illuminated crescent, where nightly the shadows of hypocrites and women fall; and Shelton went from these comments on Christianity to the station of Charing Cross.  There, as he stood waiting in the shadow, his heart was in his mouth; and it struck him as odd that he should have come to this meeting fresh from a vagabond’s society.