“Take me to see her.”

“She’d look better to-morrow,” cautiously, “when the swellin’s gone down round ’er eye.”

Dart started—­and it was because he had for the last five minutes forgotten something.

“I shall not be here to-morrow,” he said.  His grasp upon the thing in his pocket had loosened, and he tightened it.

“I have some more money in my purse,” he said deliberately.  “I meant to give it away before going.  I want to give it to people who need it very much.”

She gave him one of the sly, squinting glances.

“Deservin’ cases?” She put it to him in brazen mockery.

“I don’t care,” he answered slowly and heavily.  “I don’t care a damn.”

Her face changed exactly as he had seen it change on the bridge when she had drawn nearer to him.  Its ugly hardness suddenly looked human.  And that she could look human was fantastic.

“’Ow much ’ave yer?” she asked. “’Ow much is it?”

“About ten pounds.”

She stopped and stared at him with open mouth.

“Gawd!” she broke out; “ten pounds ’d send Apple Blossom Court to ‘eving.  Leastways, it’d take some of it out o’ ’ell.”

“Take me to it,” he said roughly.  “Take me.”

She began to walk quickly, breathing fast.  The fog was lighter, and it was no longer a blinding thing.

A question occurred to Dart.

“Why don’t you ask me to give the money to you?” he said bluntly.

“Dunno,” she answered as bluntly.  But after taking a few steps farther she spoke again.

“I ’m cheerfler than most of ’em,” she elaborated.  “If yer born cheerfle yer can stand things.  When I gets a job nussin’ women’s bibies they don’t cry when I ’andles ’em.  I gets many a bite an’ a copper ’cos o’ that.  Folks likes yer.  I shall get on better than Polly when I’m old enough to go on the street.”

The organ of whose lagging, sick pumpings Antony Dart had scarcely been aware for months gave a sudden leap in his breast.  His blood actually hastened its pace, and ran through his veins instead of crawling—­a distinct physical effect of an actual mental condition.  It was produced upon him by the mere matter-of-fact ordinariness of her tone.  He had never been a sentimental man, and had long ceased to be a feeling one, but at that moment something emotional and normal happened to him.

“You expect to live in that way?” he said.

“Ain’t nothin’ else fer me to do.  Wisht I was better lookin’.  But I’ve got a lot of ‘air,” clawing her mop, “an’ it’s red.  One day,” chuckling, “a gent ses to me—­he ses:  ’Oh! yer’ll do.  Yer an ugly little devil—­but ye are a devil.’”

She was leading him through a narrow, filthy back street, and she stopped, grinning up in his face.

“I say, mister,” she wheedled, “let’s stop at the cawfee-stand.  It’s up this way.”