A week later Celia was crouching over her fireless grate. The Wolf was

no longer outside the door, but beside her, his red eyes watching her

balefully, his cruel teeth showing between his mowing jaws. The hunger,

for which the overfed rich man longs in vain, was gnawing at her; she

was penniless and well-nigh starving; no longer did she regard the

little chorus girl in the floor below her with tender pity and sympathy,

but with envy; she knew now how rich she had been with her pound a week.

For days she had tramped the streets, in the intervals of reading the

advertisements in the free library, in search of some employment, any

employment, which a woman could take up; and her last few pence had been

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spent in one of those advertisements which tell their own tale of

despair. She was willing to do anything; she would have taken a

situation as a housemaid; would have gone out charing; for life is

precious to all of us, and scruples of refinement disappear when there

is no bread in the cupboard. But her applications, for even the lowliest

place, were turned down; she had no experience, no character; the

persons she interviewed saw, at a glance, that she was a lady, and that

was fatal: a lady willing to sink to the position of a housemaid--well,

there is something suspicious in it.

As she sat, with her hands tightly clasped, the cold of the early,

so-called, summer day chilling her to the marrow, she was cheerfully

employed in picturing her death; the discovery of the body, the

coroner's inquest, the leader which would be written in the Wire, the

properly indignant, stereotyped leader, dwelling with righteous

indignation on the "terrible poverty in our midst." She raised her head

and looked round the room. No, there was nothing left to sell or

pawn--for her dire necessity had driven her to the pawnshop, that last

refuge of the destitute, that dire rubicon which, having passed it, a

girl like Celia feels is the last barrier between her and self-respect.

A letter lay on the table; it was one from the Museum lad, Reggie Rex,

thanking her, with all the fervency of youth, for the words she had

written in praise of his story; the hope, the encouragement she had

implanted in his breast. She envied him, as she envied everyone who had

enough to purchase a loaf, a glass of milk. Then the incident in which

he had figured passed from her mind. The strains of Mr. Clendon's violin

stole up to her; but that brought no peace, no joy; to enjoy good music

when one is starving is an impossibility; the sounds irritated her, and

she was glad when they ceased.




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