There rose up before him, unsummoned, the image of Nan Ferguson, in all her freshness and innocence, as she had stood beside him on the porch in Park Street.  He was somewhat astonished to find himself defending his parishioner.

“May it not be true, in order to compete with other department stores, that Mr. Ferguson has to pay the same wages?” he said.

“Forget it.  I guess you know what Galt House is?  That’s where women like me can go when we get all played out and there’s nothing left in the game—­it’s on River Street.  Maybe you’ve been there.”

Hodder nodded.

“Well,” she continued, “Ferguson pays a lot of money to keep that going, and gets his name in the papers.  He hands over to the hospitals where some of us die—­and it’s all advertised.  He forks out to the church.  Now, I put it to you, why don’t he sink some of that money where it belongs—­in living wages?  Because there’s nothing in it for him —­that’s why.”

The rector looked at her in silence.  He had not suspected her of so much intellect.  He glanced about the apartment, at the cheap portiere flung over the sofa; at the gaudy sofa cushions, two of which bore the names and colours of certain colleges.  The gas log was almost hidden by dried palm leaves, a cigarette stump lay on the fender; on the mantel above were several photographs of men and at the other side an open door revealed a bedroom.

“This is a nice place, ain’t it?” she observed.  “I furnished it when I was on velvet—­nothing was too good for me.  Money’s like champagne when you take the cork out, it won’t keep.  I was rich once.  It was lively while it lasted,” she added, with a sigh:  “I’ve struck the down trail.  I oughtn’t, by rights, to be here fooling with you.  There’s nothing in it.”  She glanced at the clock.  “I ought to get busy.”

As the realization of her meaning came to him, he quivered.

“Is there no way but that?” he asked, in a low voice.

“Say, you’re not a-goin’ to preach, are you?”

“No,” he answered, “God forbid!  I was not asking the question of you.”

She stared at him.

“Of who, then?”

He was silent.

“You’ve left me at the station.  But on the level, you don’t seem to know much, that’s a fact.  You don’t think the man who owns these flats is in it for charity, do you?  ‘Single ladies,’ like me, have to give up.  And then there are other little grafts that wouldn’t interest you.  What church do you come from anyway?”

“You mentioned it a little while ago.”

“St. John’s!” She leaned back against the piano and laughed unrestrainedly.  “That’s a good one, to think how straight I’ve been talking to you.”

“I’m much obliged to you,” he said.

Again she gazed at him, now plainly perplexed.

“What are you giving me?”

“I mean what I say,” he answered.  “I am obliged to you for telling me things I didn’t know.  And I appreciate—­your asking me to stay.”