she summoned and surveyed all the craft faculties lurking in the dark places of her nature; theoretic y she had now accepted every debasing compact by which a woman can spite herself on the world’s injustice.  Self-assertion; to be no longer an unregarded atom in the mass of those who are born only to labour for others; to find play for the strength and the passion which, by no choice of her own, distinguished her from the tame slave.  Sometimes in the silence of night she suffered from a dreadful need of crying aloud, of uttering her anguish in a scream like that of insanity.  She stifled it only by crushing her face into the pillow until the hysterical fit had passed, and she lay like one dead.

A fortnight after his first visit Mr. Scawthorne again presented himself, polite, smiling, perhaps rather more familiar.  He stayed talking for nearly an hour, chiefly of the theatre.  Casually he mentioned that Grace Rudd had got her engagement—­only a little part in a farce.  Suppose Clara came to see her play some evening?  Might he take her?  He could at any time have places in the dress-circle.

Clara accepted the invitation.  She did so without consulting Mrs. Tubbs, and when it became necessary to ask for the evening’s freedom, difficulties were made.  ‘Very well,’ said Clara, in a tone she had never yet used to her employer, ‘then I shall leave you.’  She spoke without a moment’s reflection; something independent of her will seemed to direct her in speech and act.  Mrs. Tubbs yielded.

Clara had not yet been able to obtain the dress she wished for.  Her savings, however, were sufficient for the purchase of a few accessories, which made her, she considered, not unpresentable.  Scawthorne was to have a cab waiting for her at a little distance from the luncheon-bar.  It was now June, and at the hour of their meeting still broad daylight, but Clara cared nothing for the chance that acquaintances might see her; nay, she had a reckless desire that Sidney Kirkwood might pass just at this moment.  She noticed no one whom she knew, however; but just as the cab was turning into Pentonville Road, Scawthorne drew her attention to a person on the pavement.

‘You see that old fellow,’ he said.  ’Would you believe that he is very wealthy?’

Clara had just time to perceive an old man with white hair, dressed as a mechanic.

‘But I know him,’ she replied.  ‘His name’s Snowdon.’

‘So it is.  How do you come to know him?’ Scawthorne inquired with interest.

She explained.

‘Better not say anything about it,’ remarked her companion.  ’He’s an eccentric chap.  I happen to know his affairs in the way of business.  I oughtn’t to have told secrets, but I can trust you.’

A gentle emphasis on the last word, and a smile of more than usual intimacy.  But his manner was, and remained through the evening, respectful almost to exaggeration.  Clara seemed scarcely conscious of his presence, save in the act of listening to what he said.  She never met his look, never smiled.  From entering the theatre to leaving it, she had a high flush on her face.  Impossible to recognise her friend in the actress whom Scawthorne indicated; features and voice were wholly strange to her.  In the intervals, Scawthorne spoke of the difficulties that beset an actress’s career at its beginning.