She spoke with a strong south-west-country accent.

“Do you want me?”

“It’s only for Grim,” returned Sally. showing something which she held wrapped up in paper.  “I’d brought un home a bit o’ fish, a nice bit without bone; it’ll just suit he.”

“Then come and give it he,” said the other, with a merry glance at Waymark.  “But he mustn’t make a mess on the hearthrug.”

“Oh, trust un for that,” cried Sally.  “He won’t pull it off the paper.”

Grim was accordingly provided with his supper, and Sally ran away with a “good-night.”

“Who’s that?” Waymark asked.  “Where on earth does she come from?”

“She’s from Weymouth.  They talk queerly there, don’t they?  She lives in the house, and goes to business.  Sally and I are great friends.”

“Do you come from the country?” Waymark inquired, as she sat down in an easy-chair and watched the cat eating.

“No, I’m a London girl.  I’ve never been out of the town since I was a little child.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Guess.”

“Not twenty.”

“Eighteen a month ago.  All my life before me, isn’t it?”

Waymark kept silence for a moment.

“How do you like my room?” she asked suddenly, looking round.

“It’s very comfortable.  I always thought there were nothing but business places all about here.  I should rather like to live in the very middle of the town, like this.”

“Should you?  That’s just what I like.  Oh, how I enjoy the noise and the crowds!  I should be ill if I had to live in one of those long, dismal streets, where the houses are all the same shape, and costermongers go bawling about all day long.  I suppose you live in a place like that?”

“Very much the same.”

In taking his handkerchief out, Waymark just happened to feel a book in his overcoat-pocket.  He drew it forth to see what it was, having forgotten entirely that he had been carrying the volume about with him since morning.

“What’s that?” asked the girl.  “Will you let me look?  Is it a tale?  Lend it me; will you?”

“Do you read books?”

“Oh yes; why not?  Let me keep this till you come again.  Is this your name written here—­Osmond Waymark?”

“Yes.  And what is your name?”

“Ida Starr.”

“Ida?  That’s a beautiful name.  I was almost afraid to ask you, for fear it should be something common.”

“And why shouldn’t I have a common name?”

“Because you are by no means a common girl.”

“You think not?  Well, perhaps you are right.  But may I keep the book till I see you again?”

“I had better give it you, for it isn’t very likely you will see me again.”

“Why not?”

“My acquaintance would be anything but profitable to you.  I often haven’t enough money to live on, and—­”

Ida stooped down and played for a few moments with Grim, who turned over lazily on to his back, and stroked his mistress’s hands delicately with his soft white paws.