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“Mrs. Medwin.”

“American?”

“Dear no!”

“Then what are you doing for her?”

“I work for every one,” she promptly returned.

“For every one who pays? So I suppose. Yet isn’t it only we who do pay?”

There was a drollery, not lost on her, in the way his queer presence lent itself to his emphasised plural.

“Do you consider that YOU do?”

“At this, with his deliberation, he came back to his charming idea. “Only try me, and see if I can’t be MADE to. Work me in.” On her sharply presenting her back he stared a little at the clock. “If I come at seven may I stay to dinner?”

It brought her round again. “Impossible. I’m dining out.”

“With whom?”

She had to think. “With Lord Considine.”

“Oh my eye!” Scott exclaimed.

She looked at him gloomily. “Is THAT sort of tone what makes you pay? I think you might understand,” she went on, “that if you’re to sponge on me successfully you mustn’t ruin me. I must have SOME remote resemblance to a lady.”

“Yes? But why must I?” Her exasperated silence was full of answers, of which however his inimitable manner took no account. “You don’t understand my real strength; I doubt if you even understand your own. You’re clever, Mamie, but you’re not so clever as I supposed. However,” he pursued, “it’s out of Mrs. Medwin that you’ll get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why the cheque that will enable you to assist me.”

On this, for a moment, she met his eyes. “If you’ll come back at seven sharp–not a minute before, and not a minute after, I’ll give you two five-pound notes.”

He thought it over. “Whom are you expecting a minute after?”

It sent her to the window with a groan almost of anguish, and she answered nothing till she had looked at the street. “If you injure me, you know, Scott, you’ll be sorry.”

“I wouldn’t injure you for the world. What I want to do in fact is really to help you, and I promise you that I won’t leave you–by which I mean won’t leave London–till I’ve effected something really pleasant for you. I like you, Mamie, because I like pluck; I like you much more than you like me. I like you very, VERY much.” He had at last with this reached the door and opened it, but he remained with his hand on the latch. “What does Mrs. Medwin want of you?” he thus brought out.

She had come round to see him disappear, and in the relief of this prospect she again just indulged him.

“The impossible.”

He waited another minute. “And you’re going to do it?”

“I’m going to do it,” said Mamie Cutter.

“Well then that ought to be a haul. Call it THREE fivers!” he laughed. “At seven sharp.” And at last he left her alone.

CHAPTER II

Miss Cutter waited till she heard the house-door close; after which, in a sightless mechanical way, she moved about the room readjusting various objects he had not touched. It was as if his mere voice and accent had spoiled her form. But she was not left too long to reckon with these things, for Mrs. Medwin was promptly announced. This lady was not, more than her hostess, in the first flush of her youth; her appearance–the scattered remains of beauty manipulated by taste–resembled one of the light repasts in which the fragments of yesterday’s dinner figure with a conscious ease that makes up for the want of presence. She was perhaps of an effect still too immediate to be called interesting, but she was candid, gentle and surprised–not fatiguingly surprised, only just in the right degree; and her white face–it was too white–with the fixed eyes, the somewhat touzled hair and the Louis Seize hat, might at the end of the very long neck have suggested the head of a princess carried on a pike in a revolution. She immediately took up the business that had brought her, with the air however of drawing from the omens then discernible less confidence than she had hoped. The complication lay in the fact that if it was Mamie’s part to present the omens, that lady yet had so to colour them as to make her own service large. She perhaps over-coloured; for her friend gave way to momentary despair.