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It was her face that told her story. Upon the drawn cheeks and the drooped, woful lips there was no dabbing of cosmetics now; the professional smile, painted, pitiable and betraying, was lacking from the characterless mouth, yet the major–sweet-minded, clean-living old man though he was–knew at a glance what manner of woman he had found here in this lodging house. It was the face of a woman who never intentionally does any evil and yet rarely gets a chance to do any good–a weak, indecisive, commonplace face; and every line in it was a line of least resistance.

That then was what these two saw in each other as they stared a moment across the intervening space. It was the girl who took the initiative.

“Are you one of the police?” Then instantly on the heels of the query: “No; I know better’n that–you ain’t no police!”

Her voice was unmusical, vulgar and husky from much weeping. Magically, though, she had checked her sobbing to an occasional hard gulp that clicked down in her throat.

“No, ma’am,” said Major Stone, with a grave and respectful courtesy, “I am not connected with the police department. I am a professional man–associated at this time with the practice of journalism. I have the apartment or chamber adjoining yours and, accidentally overhearing a member of the opposite sex in seeming distress, I took it upon myself to offer any assistance that might lie within my power. If I am intruding I will withdraw.”

“No,” she said; “it ain’t no intrusion. I wisht, please, sir, you’d come in jest a minute anyway. I feel like I jest got to talk to somebody a minute. I’m sorry, though, if I disturbed you by my cryin’–but I jest couldn’t help it. Last night and the night before–that was the first night I come here–I cried all night purty near; but I kept my head in the bedclothes. But tonight, after it got dark up here and me layin’ here all alone, I felt as if I couldn’t stand it no longer. Honest, I like to died! Right this minute I’m almost plum’ distracted.”

The major advanced a step.

“I assure you I deeply regret to learn of your unhappiness,” he said. “If you desire it I will be only too glad to summon our worthy landlady, Miss–Miss—-” he paused.

“Miss La Mode,” she said, divining–“Blanche La Mode–that’s my name. I come from Indianapolis, Indiana. But please, mister, don’t call that there woman. I don’t want to see her. For a while I didn’t think I wanted to see nobody, and yit I’ve known all along, from the very first, that sooner or later I’d jest naturally have to talk to somebody. I knew I’d jest have to!” she repeated with a kind of weak intensity. “And it might jest as well be you as anybody, I guess.”

She sat up on the side of the bed, dangling her feet, and subconsciously the major took in fuller details of her attire–the cheap white slippers with rickety, worn-down high heels; the sleazy stockings; the over-decorated skirt of shabby blue cloth; the soiled and rumpled waist of coarse lace, gaping away from the scrawny neck, where the fastenings had pulled awry. Looped about her throat and dangling down on her flat breast, where they heaved up and down with her breathing, was a double string of pearls that would have been worth ten thousand dollars had they been genuine pearls. A hand which was big-knuckled and thin held a small, moist wad of handkerchief. About her there was something unmistakably bucolic, and yet she was town-branded, too, flesh and soul. Major Stone bowed with the ceremonious detail that was a part of him.

“My name, ma’am, is Stone–Major Putnam Stone, at your service,” he told her.

“Yes, sir,” she said, seeming not to catch either his name or his title. “Well, mister, I’m goin’ to tell you something that’ll maybe surprise you. I ain’t goin’ to ast you not to tell anybody, ’cause I guess you will anyhow, sooner or later; and it don’t make much difference if you do. But seems’s if I can’t hold in no longer. I guess maybe I’ll feel easier in my own mind when I git it all told. Shet that door–jest close it–the lock is broke–and set down in that chair, please, sir.”