Masters of the Wheat-Lands. Harold Bindloss

at the next turning.”

      “There really is,” said one of the youths. “The Dook has another engagement. Dream of me, Olivia!”

      A beat of heavy feet drew nearer, and the three roysterers disappeared in the direction of a flaming music-hall, where the second “house” was probably beginning. Winifred, who had stepped into the gutter to avoid the roysterer with the cane, turned as a stalwart, blue-coated figure moved towards her.

      “Thank you, officer,” she said, “they’ve gone.”

      The policeman merely raised a hand as if in comprehension, and plodded back to his post. Winifred went on until she let herself into a house in a quiet street, and ascending to the second floor entered a simply furnished room, which, however, contained a piano, and a table on which a typewriter stood amid a litter of papers. The girl took off her water-proof and sat down in a low chair beside the little fire. She was not a handsome girl, and it was evident that she did not trouble herself greatly about her attire. Her face was too thin and her figure too slight and spare, but there was usually, even when she was anxious, as she certainly was that night, a shrewdly whimsical twinkle in her eyes, and though her lips were set, her expression was compassionate.

      She was not the person to sit still very long, and in a minute or two she rose to place a little kettle on the fire. She took a few scones, a coffee-pot, and a tin of condensed milk from a cupboard. When she had spread them out upon a table she discovered that there was some of the condensed milk upon her fingers, and it must be admitted that she sucked them. They were little, stubby fingers, which somehow looked capable.

      “It must have been four o’clock when I had that bun and a cup of tea,” she remarked, half aloud.

      She glanced at the table longingly, for she occasionally found it necessary to place a certain check upon a healthy appetite. The practice of such self-denial is unfortunately, not a very unusual thing in the case of many young women who work hard in the great cities.

      “I must wait for Agatha,” she said, with a resolute shake of the head. Crossing the room toward the typewriter table she stopped to glance at a little framed photograph that stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait of Gregory Hawtrey taken years before, and she apostrophized it with quiet scorn.

      “Now you’re wanted you’re naturally away out yonder,” she declared accusingly. “You’re like the rest of them—despicable!”

      This seemed to relieve her feelings, and she sat down before the typewriter, which clicked and rattled for several minutes under her stubby fingers. The clicking ceased with sudden abruptness, and she prodded the carriage of the machine viciously with a hairpin. As this appeared unavailing, she used her forefinger, and when at length it slid along the rod with a clash there was a smear of grimy oil upon her cheek and her nose. The machine gave no further trouble, and she endeavored to make up some of the time that she had spent at the concert. It was necessary that it should be made up, but she was conscious that she was putting off an evil moment.

      At last the door opened, and Agatha Ismay, wrapped in a long cloak, came in. She permitted Winifred to take her wrap from her, and then sank down into a chair. There was a strained look in her eyes, and her face was very weary.

      “You’re working late again,” she observed.

      Winifred nodded. “It’s the men who loaf, my dear,” she replied. “When you undertake the transcription of an author’s scrawl at ninepence the thousand words you have to work hard, especially when, as it is in this case, the thing’s practically unreadable. Besides, the woman in it makes me lose my temper. If I’d had a man of the kind described to deal with I’d have thrashed him.”

      She was talking at random, partly to conceal her anxiety, and partly with the charitable purpose of giving her companion time to approach the subject that must be mentioned; but she rather overdid her effort to appear at ease. Agatha looked at her sharply.

      “Winny,” she said, “you know. You’ve been there.”

      Winifred turned towards her quietly, for she could face a crisis.

      “Yes,” she confessed, “I have, but you’re not going to talk about it until you have had supper. Don’t move until I make the coffee.”

      She was genuinely hungry, but while she satisfied her own appetite she took care that her companion, who did not seem inclined to eat, made a simple meal. Then she put the plates into a cupboard and sat down facing Agatha.

      “Well,” she said, “you have broken down exactly as that throat specialist said you would. The first question is, how long it will be before you can go on again?”

      Agatha laughed, a little harsh laugh. “I didn’t tell you everything at the time: I’ve broken down for good,” she answered.

      There was a moment of tense silence, and then Agatha made a dejected gesture. “The specialist warned me that this might happen if I went on singing, but what could I do? I couldn’t cancel my engagements without telling people why. The physician said I must go to Norway and give my throat and chest a rest.”

      They looked at each other, and there was in their eyes the half-bitter, half-weary smile of those to whom the cure prescribed is ludicrously impossible. It was Winifred who spoke first.

      “Then,” she commented, “we have to face the situation, and it’s not an encouraging one. Our joint earnings just keep us here in decency—we won’t say comfort—and they’re evidently to be subject to a big reduction. It strikes me as a rather curious coincidence that a letter from that man in Canada and one from your prosperous friends in the country arrived just before you went out.”

      She saw the look in Agatha’s eyes, and spread her hands out.

      “Yes,” she admitted; “I hid them. It seemed to me that you had quite enough upon your mind this evening. I don’t know whether the letters are likely to throw any fresh light upon the question what we’re going to do.”

      She produced the letters from a drawer in her table, and Agatha straightened herself suddenly in her chair when she had opened the first of them.

      “Oh,” she cried, “he wants me to go out to him!”

      Winifred’s face set hard for a moment, but it relaxed again, and she contrived to hide her dismay.

      “Then,” she suggested, “I suppose you’ll certainly go. After all, he’s probably not worse to live with than most of them.”

      Miss Rawlinson was occasionally a little bitter, but, like others of her kind, she had been compelled to compete in an overcrowded market with hard-driven men. She was, however, sincerely attached to her friend, and she smiled when she saw the flash in Agatha’s eyes.

      “Oh,” she added, “you needn’t try to wither me with your indignation. No doubt he’s precisely what he ought to be, and I dare say it will ease your feelings if you talk about him again; at least it will help you to formulate your reasons for going out to him. I’ll listen patiently, and try not to be uncharitable.”

      Agatha fell in with the suggestion. It was a relief to talk, and she had a certain respect, which she would not always admit, for her friend’s shrewdness. She meant to go, but she desired to ascertain how a less interested person would regard the course that she had decided on.

      “I have known Gregory since I was a girl,” she said.

      Winifred pursed up her lips. “I understood you met him at the Grange, and you were only there for a few weeks once a year,” she replied. “After all, that isn’t a very great deal. It seems he fell in love with you, which is, perhaps, comprehensible. What I don’t quite know the reason for is why you fell in love with him.”

      “Ah,” responded Agatha, “you have never seen Gregory.”

      “I haven’t,” admitted Winifred sourly; “I have, however, seen his picture. One must admit that he’s reasonably good-looking. In fact,