“Most married men’s a bit afraid to look an honest grocery bill in the face.  And they will come in—­as regular as spring hats.  And I tell you, when a man’s got to live on seventy-five a month, a thing that’ll take all the strength and energy out of a twenty-dollar bill sorter gets him down on the mat.”

Like old Mrs. Welden’s, his roughly sketched picture was a graphic one.

“’Tain’t the working that bothers most of us.  We were born to that, and most of us would feel like deadbeats if we were doing nothing.  It’s the earning less than you can live on, and getting a sort of tired feeling over it.  It’s the having to make a dollar-bill look like two, and watching every other fellow try to do the same thing, and not often make the trip.  There’s millions of us—­just millions—­every one of us with his Delkoff to sell——­” his figure of speech pleased him and he chuckled at his own cleverness—­“and thinking of it, and talking about it, and—­under his vest—­half afraid that he can’t make it.  And what you say in the morning when you open your eyes and stretch yourself is, ’Hully gee!  I’ve got to sell a Delkoff to-day, and suppose I shouldn’t, and couldn’t hold down my job!’ I began it over my feeding bottle.  So did all the people I know.  That’s what gave me a sort of a jolt just now when I looked at you and thought about you being you—­and what it meant.”

When their conversation ended she had a much more intimate knowledge of New York than she had ever had before, and she felt it a rich possession.  She had heard of the “hall bedroom” previously, and she had seen from the outside the “quick lunch” counter, but G. Selden unconsciously escorted her inside and threw upon faces and lives the glare of a flashlight.

“There was a thing I’ve been thinking I’d ask you, Miss Vanderpoel,” he said just before she left him.  “I’d like you to tell me, if you please.  It’s like this.  You see those two fellows treated me as fine as silk.  I mean Lord Mount Dunstan and Mr. Penzance.  I never expected it.  I never saw a lord before, much less spoke to one, but I can tell you that one’s just about all right—­Mount Dunstan.  And the other one—­the old vicar—­I’ve never taken to anyone since I was born like I took to him.  The way he puts on his eye-glasses and looks at you, sorter kind and curious about you at the same time!  And his voice and his way of saying his words—­well, they just got me—­sure.  And they both of ’em did say they’d like to see me again.  Now do you think, Miss Vanderpoel, it would look too fresh—­if I was to write a polite note and ask if either of them could make it convenient to come and take a look at me, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.  I don’t want to be too fresh—­and perhaps they wouldn’t come anyhow—­and if it is, please won’t you tell me, Miss Vanderpoel?”

Betty thought of Mount Dunstan as he had stood and talked to her in the deepening afternoon sun.  She did not know much of him, but she thought—­having heard G. Selden’s story of the lunch—­that he would come.  She had never seen Mr. Penzance, but she knew she should like to see him.