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” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. . I know London better than you, and I have had to earn my own living. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. ‘No! Let me alone!’ ‘It is not safe!’ ‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the least,’ she told him haughtily. But tell me one thing I don’t understand—tell me one thing: How can you help it by coming down into the battle and the mire? That’s the thing that concerns me.
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