The porter summoned a cab gruffly and the baskets were placed on top. Mary's proffered coppers purchased a certain amount of civility so that the porter asked the address. Mary gasped and stared in a blank kind of way. She had absolutely forgotten the address. She recollected now that she had left the card on the hall table at the dower house. How she longed from the bottom of her heart to be back there again in that cool shadow. But the grimy face of the cabman recalled her to her senses.

"I have stupidly left the address behind me," she said. "I remember the street, and I daresay you can inquire when you get there. I am very sorry----"

"Miss Dashwood, I think," a cool, firm voice, with a subtle suggestion of laughter in it, smote on Mary's ears. "So you have forgotten the address. Not that it matters in the least, for you are coming with me. You haven't taken your room?"

"No," Mary stammered. She was utterly taken off her dignity by the easy manner of the stranger. "I had the address given me, the address of a respectable woman near the British Museum who had apartments to let. Unfortunately, I left the paper behind me. But you will excuse me if I say that I have not the pleasure----"

"Oh, that is all right," the stranger said. "I'm a friend of Ralph Darnley's. He sent me a very long telegram today to a certain extent explaining the position of affairs, and asking me to meet you and place my services at your disposal. Perhaps you have heard Ralph speak of me, Connie Colam."

"Only today," Mary said; "and then he did not allude to you by name. Still, it is very kind of you to take all this trouble, especially for a stranger like myself. How did you recognise me?"

"There were what the Americans call 'pointers' in the telegram," Miss Colam laughed. "But please get in or we shall have the cabman. abusive, and that is a consummation decidedly not to be wished. Please drive to 16, Keppel Terrace."

The rickety vehicle got under way at length to Mary's great relief. She laid her aching head back against the dirty cushions, wondering if in the whole weary world there was another girl as miserable and heartsick as she was. She raised her hot lids presently to the face of her companion. The critical edge was already dulled, but in no circumstances could Mary have disapproved of her companion. A very dainty and refined face was Connie Colam's, with a pleasant frank expression and a sensitive mouth. At the same time she did not lack in certain suggestions of courage and resolution.

"I hope you approve of me," she said demurely.

"I like your face, if that is what you mean," Mary replied. "I shall be able to thank you presently for all your spontaneous kindness. Meanwhile, I have the most dreadful headache. After we have found my rooms----"

"Oh, your rooms are found already. For the present you are going to stay with me. We are going to join forces. My late chum has gone to Paris for a year, and you are going to occupy her bedroom. That is all arranged."

Mary murmured something that was intended for gratitude. She had always professed a profound contempt for the helpless type of girl who lets things drift, but she was letting herself drift now with her eyes wide open. And though she was not prepared to admit it, she was almost hysterically glad of the companionship and sympathy of the stranger. As she stood on the platform a little time before, the horrible sense of desolation had gripped her, the awful feeling of loneliness that comes to the friendless in London.

Yes, she was passionately glad of this companion. She did not even desire to know whether Connie came of a good family or not, her one idea now was to lie down and get rid of a wretched wearing headache. Where was her pride of race and station now? Where were the force and courage that rose above circumstances and fought physical weakness under? Mary was content to leave everything to her companion--the paying of the cabman, the arranging of her boxes, the setting out of her various treasures.

"Now you are going to lie down at once," Connie said. "I'll bathe your head with Eau de Cologne, and as soon as I have settled you comfortably, I'll make you a cup of tea. It is one of my great accomplishments. I make my own tea from my own private supply. You lie there and think of nothing."

Mary closed her aching eyes; the touch of those deft kindly hands was very soothing. The air was full of the faint scent, and gradually Mary dropped into a sleep. It was an hour later before she opened her eyes again; the stinging pain had gone. Connie stood by the side of the bed with a cup of tea in her hand.

"You are better," she cried. "I can see that in your eyes. And what beautiful blue eyes they are. A ............