“Good night,” he said, “and thank you.”

Her look halted him.

“What’s your hurry?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry,” he said hastily, “but I must be going.”  He was, in truth, in a panic to leave.

“You’re a minister, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I guess you don’t think much of me, do you?” she demanded.

He halted abruptly, struck by the challenge, and he saw that this woman had spoken not for herself, but for an entire outlawed and desperate class.  The fact that the words were mocking and brazen made no difference; it would have been odd had they not been so.  With a shock of surprise he suddenly remembered that his inability to reach this class had been one of the causes of his despair!  And now?  With the realization, reaction set in, an overpowering feeling of weariness, a desire—­for rest—­for sleep.  The electric light beside the piano danced before his eyes, yet he heard within him a voice crying out to him to stay.  Desperately tired though he was, he must not leave now.  He walked slowly to the table, put his hat on it and sat down in a chair beside it.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Oh, cut it out!” said the woman.  “I’m on to you church folks.”  She laughed.  “One of ’em came in here once, and wanted to pray.  I made a monkey of him.”

“I hope,” said the rector, smiling a little, “that is not the reason why you wish me to stay.”

She regarded him doubtfully.

“You’re not the same sort,” she announced at length.

“What sort was he?”

“He was easy,—­old enough to know better—­most of the easy ones are.  He marched in sanctimonious as you please, with his mouth full of salvation and Bible verses.”  She laughed again at the recollection.

“And after that,” said the rector, “you felt that ministers were a lot of hypocrites.”

“I never had much opinion of ’em,” she admitted, “nor of church people, either,” she added, with emphasis.

“There’s Ferguson, who has the department store,—­he’s ‘way up’ in church circles.  I saw him a couple of months ago, one Sunday morning, driving to that church on Burton Street, where all the rich folks go.  I forget the name—­”

“St. John’s,” he supplied.  He had got beyond surprise.

“St. John’s—­that’s it.  They tell me he gives a lot of money to it —­money that he steals from the girls he hires.  Oh, yes, he’ll get to heaven—­I don’t think.”

“How do you mean that he steals money from the girls?”

“Say, you are innocent—­ain’t you!  Did you ever go down to that store?  Do you know what a floorwalker is?  Did you ever see the cheap guys hanging around, and the young swells waiting to get a chance at the girls behind the counters?  Why do you suppose so many of ’em take to the easy life?  I’ll put you next—­because Ferguson don’t pay ’em enough to live on.  That’s why.  He makes ’em sign a paper, when he hires ’em, that they live at home, that they’ve got some place to eat and sleep, and they sign it all right.  That’s to square up Ferguson’s conscience.  But say, if you think a girl can support herself in this city and dress on what he pays, you’ve got another guess comin’.”