It was a fresh and beautiful morning when she arrived in London town. The sun shone, the sparrows chirruped merrily, violets and mimosa were displayed at the street-corners; English spring was at its best. Evarne changed the remainder of her French gold at the station, and then wandered out of its main entrance—aimlessly—ignorant of where to go—which way to turn.

In the station yard she narrowly escaped being run over by the numerous 'buses that were constantly either entering or leaving. Her first impulse was to mount one of these and let it take her where it would, but condemning this as a foolish fancy, she crossed the road, and commenced to wander down the street directly facing the station. But the wide grandeur of Victoria Street was oppressive. She was anxious to find the cheaper parts of London, and get settled in a moderate-priced hotel or boarding-house without delay. This feeling of absolute homelessness was dreadful.

She was passing an attractive-looking refreshment-shop. It was now about twenty to twelve, and at noon she was accustomed to her first serious meal. She became aware that she was sinking for lack of food, and entering, ordered something to eat.

The neighbouring establishment was devoted to the sale of religious pictures, crucifixes and other church requisites, but taking advantage of the great width of the pavement, the enterprising proprietor had placed outside his window some tressels and a board, which was now covered with numerous second-hand books, under the protection of a small boy.

As Evarne ate her meal she distracted her thoughts by watching a girl who was seemingly proposing to purchase a volume, for she was bestowing upon them a protracted study. First one was picked up and glanced into, then another, but Evarne soon saw that it was not the printed wisdom that was filling her mind. Every few seconds her eyes cast anxious glances in the direction of the station, and ere long she abandoned even the pretence of book-gazing, and stood there, frankly waiting and watching for somebody.

She had obviously made her toilette with great care and attention to detail. She wore a long coat and a white hat with a black feather drooping over towards her shoulder. She had on spotless white kid gloves and smart shoes, and a little bunch of blossoms was fastened at her throat by a small pearl brooch. Noticing all this, Evarne guessed at once what it was that kept this girl loitering about thus long, gazing so earnestly towards the station. "She is in love—I can see plainly. Little fool! It will only bring her misery," was the verdict of this young cynic, for suddenly the far-distant temple at Karnak had risen again in her memory; she could see the cruel eye, the set lips, of the Egyptian goddess of Love—of Sekhet—in her implacable silent power.

At length Evarne felt compelled to take her departure. But to where? Who could advise her? She studied the countenance of the damsel by whom she had been waited upon. It was not unpretty, but oh! so sadly shallow and unsympathetic. No kindly aid would be forthcoming from that quarter. Silently she quitted the shop.

Not far from the door stood the girl who had already attracted her attention. She certainly did not look as if she could be much acquainted with the shifts of poverty, but she did look as if she could be kind and willing to be helpful. Yielding this time to an impulse, Evarne approached, and without preamble asked where one could obtain cheap lodgings in London.

To her relief the girl with the plume did not evince the least surprise. She appeared to consider it quite natural to be asked such a question by a daintily-clad stranger, and calmly proceeded to consider the matter.

"How cheap do you mean?" she inquired. "There are a great many boarding-houses in Bloomsbury—near the British Museum, you know—where you would be made quite comfortable for two pounds a week, or even less. Still, there are much cheaper ways of living than that, if you prefer."

Evarne decided that Fate had guided her to one who was, seemingly, an authority on precisely the class of knowledge she was seeking. Two pounds a week was certainly very moderate, but when one is possessed of less than eight pounds in the world—no, that was beyond her means. She could not allow her whole fortune to be dissipated on a month's riotous living!

"Please tell me about the cheaper ways. How—do you happen to know where girls live who can only spare one pound a week?"

"Well, it chiefly depends on the girl. Some hire cubicles in clubs, or homes, or places of that sort, and get most of their meals out. But it's not nice—they treat you as if you were a child—I've never known any one with any 'go' in them who liked it. Shall I tell you what I should do myself?"

"Yes, please do."

"I should go to the stage-door of this music-hall just here"—and she carelessly waved her hand in the direction of the edifice she mentioned. "Then ask the doorkeeper for some addresses, and he will tell you where the artistes stay when they are engaged at the hall."

Here she broke off, and took a short step sideways in order to see between the people passing to and fro, but in a minute turned her attention again to Evarne.

"You can get a room and attendance for ten shillings a week, or thereabouts, and arrange what you'll eat according to the state of the exchequer. I've done that myself, so I know it isn't half-bad. You do your own marketing, you understand, and the landlady does the cooking."

Somewhat surprised at this confidence, Evarne thanked her gratefully.

"Am I not fortunate in having ventured to ask you?" she said in her sweetest voice. "I should never have dreamed of such a nice way on my own account."

The girl with the plume seemed pleased, and accompanied her the few steps to the corner of the side-street in which the stage-entrance of the music-hall was to be found; there they parted, and Evarne proceeded on her exploring expedition alone. Sure enough, she soon beheld a very narrow, red folding-door, over which "Stage Door" appeared enticingly in white letters. The flaps were already slightly ajar, and, pushing them wider open, she peered inside the sacred portals.

There was a commissionaire's box sure enough, but no official of any description to grace it. Nothing daunted, Evarne climbed a winding flight of stairs that was just ahead. This ended in a big, square landing, on to which opened several doors. All were closed but one, which, standing wide open, exposed to view a row of washing-basins on a high table, a portion of uncarpeted floor on which lay a jester's cap and a stuffed dog, a huge truss of hay propped up in a corner, together with a couple of guns, and a chair covered with a pile of garments.

Since, save for these rooms, the landing was a blank alley, Evarne was about to descend when a step was heard, and a very young man appeared in the open doorway. Partly with a view to accounting for her trespassing, the girl explained: "I want to find the hall-porter."

The youth's response was far from useful.

"Well, he isn't here now, and I don't know where he is, or when he will be back."

The idea came to Evarne that possibly this stranger might serve as well as the porter.

"I wanted to ask if he could tell me of any nice lodgings about here," she said.

The youth at once waxed quite enthusiastic.

"Well, I can jolly well tell you that! We are staying at the only decent place in the neighbourhood. We go there about four times a year, and we wouldn't go to anybody else than Mrs. Burling, not for toffee. When are you coming in?"

"I want a room at once."

"Well, I can't say what she's got vacant. We've got—let me see—a sitting-room, and one, two, three bedrooms."

"Would you mind telling me what you pay for that?"

"Well, we're charged a pound a week for our lot, and that's inclusive, coals and light and everything. I'll give you the address. You can't better it, I'll take my oath."

He scribbled an address, and Evarne again sought the outer air. At the corner of the street was the girl with the plume, still waiting, who inquired after her success.

Evarne showed her the slip of paper.

"It's the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Is that near by?" she asked.

"Oh yes; just cross over and go straight ahead, past that clock."

But to get across this crowded thoroughfare was an undertaking that Evarne, with her shaken nerves, was scarcely capable of managing. Again and again she set out only to return, startled and alarmed, to the pavement. Undue timidity was so new to her that her pretty brow deepened into wrinkles. It was dreadful that stress of mental suffering should have reduced her to this foolishly weak and incapable condition of mind and body.

The girl with the plume once more came to the rescue.

"You're not used to London, I can see. I'll take you across. And now I'll just show you the right road," she continued, when they had reached the opposite pavement in safety.

"I do hope," declared Evarne slyly, "that nobody specially interesting will happen to come along over there while you are being so kind as to see after me."

Her companion looked for a moment as if she had suddenly discovered herself to be in the society of a clairvoyante. Then she answered lightly enough—

"It doesn't matter much if she does."

But Evarne was not to be deceived by the feminine pronoun.

In a couple of minutes the girl with the plume stopped.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand, "and good luck."

Evarne was sorry to have to say farewell. She clasped the hand that was offered her.

"Good-bye," she said roguishly, "and I do hope that then he—um—I mean she——"

The girl with the plume interrupted her by a little laugh of amusement. Evarne laughed too, and thus they parted.

It was just a stray meeting—a momentary friendship never to be renewed—but it put Evarne in a new frame of mind. Whether it was owing to the meal, or to having so far forgotten her own woes as to indulge in the fun of bantering another girl, or whether it was to the practical kindness and help she had received in finding a pied-À-terre, she knew not; but certainly she walked down Vauxhill Bridge Road with a considerably brighter expression than heretofore.

The number found, her knock was answered by Mrs. Burling in person. Evarne inquired after accommodation and terms.

"Are you a pro, miss?" inquired Mrs. Burling.

"A pro?"

"I mean, are you on the stage yourself? But there, I can see you ain't."

The girl acknowledged it.

"Does that matter?"

"Not a bit; come in, my dear."

Evarne entered, and trying to close her nostrils against the smell of onions that was wafted along the passage, followed Mrs. Burling into a sitting-room. This apartment was overcrowded by a suite of shiny black furniture, and decorated lavishly with antimacassars, and objects of one description and another under glass cases. The girl thought it hideous, and almost unbearable to have to live amid such surroundings.

"Take a seat, miss. I've only got a 'combined' vacant now, but next week——"

"I don't want to pay much," confessed Evarne frankly. "How much is the 'combined,' and may I see it?"

She hadn't the least idea of what a "combined" might happen to be, but was not going to display her ignorance twice within the first three minutes.

Mrs. Burling led the way up a couple of steep flights of stairs, into a smallish room that she herself probably thought charmingly harmonious and attractive. Its walls were covered with a dull yellowish paper whereon was a design of pink poppies as big as one's head, with ramping green leaves of a size to correspond. There were two cupboards painted white, but picked out with green, while the threadbare carpet was likewise of a verdant hue. By the window was a writing-table, covered with an ink-stained emerald cloth, and the wicker arm-chair that stood before it tried to render itself cosy and enticing by means of a couple of thin cushions—both green, sure enough, but scarcely a happy combination of the shades of that colour to be reposing cheek by jowl. In the corner stood a spotlessly white fluffy-looking bed; there was a wardrobe with a disfiguring mirror for the door; a washing-stand—with china pink and green—altogether it was complete enough, but oh!—Evarne's artistic soul shuddered.

However, she had made up her mind that the poor must be easily pleased, and on learning that she could become mistress of this domain for ten shillings weekly, inclusive, she accepted the position without demur.

"'Ave you got any more luggage at the station?" inquired the landlady, "because my Tommy's got a 'and-cart that he can bring it along in."

Evarne said that the bag she had left in the hall downstairs was all she owned in that direction.

"It's my custom to ask for part of the rent in advance, miss," promptly announced Mrs. Burling.

Without comment, Evarne meekly opened her purse and produced half-a-sovereign.

"Send up my bag, please," she said, and in another five minutes found herself alone with all her worldly possessions in her first independent home in London. Her new life had indeed started.