fat old woman, after being subjected to so much undeserved suffering. It was a thousand pities, he said to himself, that a really good sort of girl should be forced to live her life beside a creature of that type, and under such an influence. He had not quite believed in the poor child, at first, perhaps, and because he did believe in her now, he felt poignant remorse for his past injustice.
"What did you do, then?" he asked, honestly absorbed in the story, for he was a generous and warm hearted fellow, who found most of his pleasure, in these latter days, in the help he could give others, to make them happier than he was himself.
"I comforted her as well as I could, but I didn't know what would become of us. Then a lady, who had a room next to mine in the hotel, heard me crying, and was very kind."
"I should think she would have been," interrupted the young man.
"She told me that, as my mother had lost everything, she had better go to the Direction of the Casino, and get what they call a viatique – money to go away with. So she did ask, though it was a great ordeal to make up her mind to do it; and they gave my mother a thousand francs. Then, you know, she had no right to play in the Rooms again; she was supposed to pay her hotel bill, and leave Monte Carlo. But she gave half the money to a woman she had met in the Rooms, and asked her to put it on six numbers she had dreamed about; she was sure that this time she would win."
"And did she?"
"No. The money was lost. We hadn't enough left to settle our account at the hotel, or to get away from the place, even if there were anywhere to go – when one has no pennies. So my mother begged me to slip into the Rooms, with what was left, and try to get something back. I had been trying when you saw me, with our last louis. Now you know why it seemed so good to see a man I knew, a face I could trust. Now you know why I, who had had such misfortunes, was glad at least to bring you luck."
"It's my turn to bring you some, I think," began the man she could trust; but she stopped him by putting up her plump little white hand.
"If you mean with money, no," she said, with soft decision that was pretty and sad to hear. "If you mean with advice, yes. If you could only get me something to do! You see, they will be turning us out of our hotel to-morrow. They've let us keep our rooms on, up to now, but for two days they've not given us anything to eat. Of course, it can't go on like this. If it hadn't been for you, I think when I went back to tell my mother that the last louis of the viatique was gone, we would have killed ourselves."
"Great Heaven, you must promise me not to do that," the young man implored.
"I will promise, now, for you have saved me by – caring a little. You do care, really, don't you?"
"I wouldn't have blood in my veins, if I didn't. But – about something for you to do – I must think."
"Are you staying here for some time?" asked the girl.
"I haven't made up my mind."
"I asked because I – I suppose you don't need a secretary, do you? I can write such a good English hand; and I know French and Italian as well as I do German, and your own language. If I could be of use, I would work so hard for you."
"I dare say I shall be needing a secretary after Christmas, indeed, I'm sure I shall," insisted the young man, more and more earnest in his desire to do good. "I have dozens of letters to write every day, and all sorts of odds and ends to keep straight. I could bring the things down to your place and you could help me, if you would. But I'm afraid it would be no end of bother to you."
"I should love it," said the girl, gently.
"Oh, it would be hard work. It would take a lot of your time, and be worth a lot of money."
"Would it really? But you mustn't overpay me. I should be so angry if you did that."
"There's no danger. I'm a good business man, I assure you. I should pay a capable secretary like you – knowing several languages and all that – say forty dollars a week. That's about two hundred francs."
"Wouldn't that be too much?"
"Hardly enough."
"You are so good – so good! But I knew you would be. I wonder if you would think me a very bold girl if I told you something? It's this; I've never forgotten you since those days in Paris. You were different, somehow, from other men I had seen. I thought about you. I had a presentiment that we should meet again. My mother dreamed of numbers to play at roulette. I dreamed of – but oh, I am saying things I ought not to say! Please don't blame me. When you've starved for two days, and not known what to do – unless to die, and then a man comes who is kind, and saves you from terrible things, you can't be as wise and well behaved as at other times."
"Poor child," said the young man.
"It does me good to be called that. But you don't know my name, the name of your new secretary. It is Julie – Julie de Lavalette. My mother is the Comtesse de Lavalette. And you?"
"Oh, I'm plain Hugh Egerton," said the young man.
The girl laughed. "I do not think you are plain Hugh Egerton at all. But perhaps an American girl would not tell you that? Hugh! What a nice name. I think it is going to be my favourite name."
She glanced up at him softly, under long lashes, – a thrilling glance; but he missed its radiance, for his own eyes were far away. Hugh had been the favourite name of another girl.
When she saw that look of his, she rose from her chair. "I'm taking too much of your time," she exclaimed, remorsefully. "I must go."
His eyes and thoughts came back to the wearer of pink and roses. Perhaps there had been just a little too much softness and sweetness. It had been wise of her to change the key, and speak of parting.
He paid for the lunch, and tipped the waiters so liberally that they all hoped he would come again often. Then he asked if he might walk with her to the hotel where she and her mother were staying.
"It's down in the Condamine," she hesitated. "We've moved there lately, since the money began to go, and we've had to think of everything. It's rather a long walk from here."
"All the better for me," he answered, and her smile was an appreciation of the compliment.
They sauntered slowly, for there was no haste. Nobody else wanted Hugh Egerton's society, and he began to believe that this girl sincerely did want it. He also believed that he was going to do some real good in the world, not just in the ordinary, obvious way, by throwing about his money, but by being genuinely necessary to someone.
When they had strolled down the hill, and had followed for a time the straight road along the sea on that level plain which is the Condamine, the girl turned up a side street. "We live here," she said, and stopped before a structure of white stucco, rococco decoration, and flimsy balconies. Large gold letters, one or two of which were missing, advertised the house as the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil; and those who ran might read that it would be charitable to describe its accommodation as second rate.
"It is not nice," she went on, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. "But – it is good to know all the same that we will not be turned out. I have a new heart in my breast, since I left this house a few hours ago – because there is a You in the world."
As she said this, she held out her hand for goodbye, and when he had shaken it warmly, the young man was bold enough to slip off her wrist the little pink leather bag which hung there by its chain.
"Now for
