But a way offered itself if she could overcome the poor lingering vestiges of pride and shame which hitherto had seemed to render it impossible.  In this hour her desolate spirit rejected everything but the thought of relief to be found in new occupation, fresh society.  She had endured to the limit of strength.  Under the falling night, before the grey vision of a city which, by its alien business and pleasure, made her a mere outcast, she all at once found hope in a resource which till now had signified despair.

Summoning the first empty cab, she gave an address known to her only by hearsay, that of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association, and was driven thither in about a quarter of an hour.  The shop, with its windows cunningly laid out to allure the female eye, spread a brilliant frontage between two much duller places of business; at the doorway stood a commissionaire, distributing some newly printed advertisements to the persons who entered, or who paused in passing.  Nancy accepted a paper without thinking about it, and went through the swing doors held open for her by a stripling in buttons; she approached a young woman at the nearest counter, and in a low voice asked whether Miss.  French was on the premises.

‘I’m not sure, madam.  I will inquire at once.’

‘She calls me “madam,"’ said Nancy to herself whilst waiting.  ’So do shopkeepers generally.  I suppose I look old.’

The young person (she honeyed a Cockney twang) speedily came back to report that Miss.  French had left about half-an-hour ago, and was not likely to return.

‘Can you give me her private address?’

Not having seen Miss.  French since the latter’s unwelcome call in Grove Lane, she only knew that Beatrice had left De Crespigny Park to inhabit a flat somewhere or other.

‘I wish to see her particularly, on business.’

‘Excuse me a moment, madam.’

On returning, the young person requested Nancy to follow her up the shop, and led into a glass-partitioned office, where, at a table covered with fashion-plates, sat a middle-aged man, with a bald head of peculiar lustre.  He rose and bowed; Nancy repeated her request.

‘Could I despatch a message for you, madam?’

‘My business is private.’

The bald-headed man coughed urbanely, and begged to know her name.

‘Miss.  Lord—­of Grove Lane.’

Immediately his countenance changed from deprecating solemnity to a broad smile of recognition.

’Miss.  Lord!  Oh, to be sure; I will give you the address at once.  Pray pardon my questions; we have to be so very careful.  So many people desire private interviews with Miss.  French.  I will jot down the address.’

He did so on the back of an advertisement, and added verbal directions.  Nancy hurried away.