She was sitting upright now, her expression changed, her breath came more rapidly, her lips parted as she gazed at him.

“Do you know,” she said, “I haven’t had anybody speak to me like that for four years.”  Her voice betrayed excitement, and differed in tone, and she had cast off unconsciously the vulgarity of speech.  At that moment she seemed reminiscent of what she must once have been; and he found himself going through an effort at reconstruction.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like a woman,” she answered vehemently.

“My name is John Hodder,” he said, “and I live in the parish house, next door to the church.  I should like to be your friend, if you will let me.  If I can be of any help to you now, or at any other time, I shall feel happy.  I promise not to preach,” he added.

She got up abruptly, and went to the window.  And when she turned to him again, it was with something of the old bravado.

“You’d better leave me alone, I’m no good;” she said.  “I’m much obliged to you, but I don’t want any charity or probation houses in mine.  And honest work’s a thing of the past for me—­even if I could get a job.  Nobody would have me.  But if they would, I couldn’t work any more.  I’ve got out of the hang of it.”  With a swift and decisive movement she crossed the room, opened a cabinet on the wall, revealing a bottle and glasses.

“So you’re bent upon going—­downhill?” he said.

“What can you do to stop it?” she retorted defiantly, “Give me religion —–­I guess you’d tell me.  Religion’s all right for those on top, but say, it would be a joke if I got it.  There ain’t any danger.  But if I did, it wouldn’t pay room-rent and board.”

He sat mute.  Once more the truth overwhelmed, the folly of his former optimism arose to mock him.  What he beheld now, in its true aspect, was a disease of that civilization he had championed. . .

She took the bottle from the cupboard and laid it on the table.

“What’s the difference?” she demanded.  “It’s all over in a little while, anyway.  I guess you’d tell me there was a hell.  But if that’s so, some of your church folks’ll broil, too.  I’ll take my chance on it, if they will.”  She looked at him, half in defiance, half in friendliness, across the table.  “Say, you mean all right, but you’re only wastin’ time here.  You can’t do me any good, I tell you, and I’ve got to get busy.”

“May we not at least remain friends?” he asked, after a moment.

Her laugh was a little harsh.

“What kind of friendship would that be?  You, a minister, and me a woman on the town?”

“If I can stand it, I should think you might.”

“Well, I can’t stand it,” she answered.

He got up, and held out his hand.  She stood seemingly irresolute, and then took it.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” she repeated nonchalantly.

As he went out of the door she called after him: