In consequence of this compromise, the demon by degrees took seat at his breakfast-table, when Mrs. Wicklow, his landlady, could hear Anthony talking in the tone of voice of one who was pushed to his sturdiest arguments.  She conceived that the old man’s head was softening.

He was making one of his hurried rushes with the porterage of money on an afternoon in Spring, when a young female plucked at his coat, and his wrath at offenders against the law kindled in a minute into fury.

“Hands off, minx!” he cried.  “You shall be given in charge.  Where’s a policeman?”

“Uncle!” she said.

“You precious swindler in petticoats!” Anthony fumed.

But he had a queer recollection of her face, and when she repeated piteously:  “Uncle!” he peered at her features, saying,—­

“No!” in wonderment, several times.

Her hair was cut like a boy’s.  She was in common garments, with a close-shaped skull-cap and a black straw bonnet on her head; not gloved, of ill complexion, and with deep dark lines slanting down from the corners of her eyes.  Yet the inspection convinced him that he beheld Dahlia, his remembering the niece.  He was amazed; but speedily priceless trust in his arms, and the wickedness of the streets, he bade her follow him.  She did so with some difficulty, for he ran, and dodged, and treated the world as his enemy, suddenly vanished, and appeared again breathing freely.

“Why, my girl?” he said:  “Why, Dahl—­Mrs. What’s-your-name?  Why, who’d have known you?  Is that”—­he got his eyes close to her hair; “is that the ladies’ fashion now?  ’Cause, if it is, our young street scamps has only got to buy bonnets, and—­I say, you don’t look the Pomp.  Not as you used to, Miss Ma’am, I mean—­no, that you don’t.  Well, what’s the news?  How’s your husband?”

“Uncle,” said Dahlia; “will you, please, let me speak to you somewhere?”

“Ain’t we standing together?”

“Oh! pray, out of the crowd!”

“Come home with me, if my lodgings ain’t too poor for you,” said Anthony.

“Uncle, I can’t.  I have been unwell.  I cannot walk far.  Will you take me to some quiet place?”

“Will you treat me to a cab?” Anthony sneered vehemently.

“I have left off riding, uncle.”

“What!  Hulloa!” Anthony sang out.  “Cash is down in the mouth at home, is it?  Tell me that, now?”

Dahlia dropped her eyelids, and then entreated him once more to conduct her to a quiet place where they might sit together, away from noise.  She was very earnest and very sad, not seeming to have much strength.

“Do you mind taking my arm?” said Anthony.

She leaned her hand on his arm, and he dived across the road with her, among omnibuses and cabs, shouting to them through the roar,—­