"Think what
you'd think of her if she'd got herself into the same sort of scrape by
doin' the things you've been doin'! And remember _that_ if you ever feel
impatient with her, or have any temptations to superiority in times to
come. And yet"--for the moment she spoke earnestly--"you go back to your
little girl, but don't you tell her a word of this. You couldn't
even tell her that meetin' you has helped me, because she wouldn't
understand."
"Nor do I. I can't."
"Oh, it's simple. I saw that if I was gettin' down to where I was
robbin' babies and orphans...." The cab halted. "Here's your corner. I
told him only to go round the block and come back. Good-by. I'm off for
Amalfi. It's a good place to rest."
He got out dazedly, and the driver cracked his whip over the little
horse; but Mellin lifted a detaining hand.
"_A spet_," called Lady Mount-Rhyswicke to the driver. "What is it, Mr.
Mellin?"
"I can't--I can't look you in the face," he stammered, his attitude
perfectly corroborative of his words. "I would--oh, I would kneel in the
dust here before you--"
"Some of the poetry you told me you write?"
"I've never written any poetry," he said, not looking up.
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