The house in which Miss Jean Brodie rented a single room stood in a by-street in the heart of Camberwell. Despite the knowledge that any feelings of fastidiousness were now entirely unseemly and out of place, Evarne could not avoid a certain dismay at the prospect of actually residing amid such abject poverty, disorder and squalor. Threading their way between the swarming dirty children, who shouted and played and disputed on every side, numerous as rabbits in a warren, they entered a dark, narrow passage and proceeded to mount the uncarpeted stairs.

"My room is on the top floor," explained Miss Brodie, as the first landing was gained. "Rents are very high in London. There are seven separate lots of people living in this house."

At this juncture a voice came from one of the half-open doors they were passing—

"What did I do? Why, I says quite perlite-like, ''Ave a drop o' gin, ol' dear,' but she ups and says to me, she says——"

But what "she" had responded to this invitation was lost in a peal of laughter from several throats. Miss Brodie looked supercilious.

"That's Mrs. Harbert. You won't need to talk to her at all. She's not a very respectable old woman. I'm sure I wonder the landlord has her in the house; but there, he doesn't heed anything so long as he gets his rent punctually."

Evarne glanced back over her shoulder, and surveyed this wicked personage! She saw a cleanly, neatly-clad, comfortable-looking old dame of about sixty, who still retained traces of unusual good looks. She seemed so good-natured and happy that Evarne inquired with some interest into the character of her misdemeanours. She was more entertained than appalled by the information. The culprit had been an artist's model, and the walls of her room were now absolutely covered with innumerable paintings and drawings depicting herself in the days of her youth, "but with not a decent stitch of clothing among the whole lot, my dear."

Miss Brodie's own apartment, though poor in the extreme, was certainly respectability itself. As was most suitable in a room principally designed for needlework, the floor was uncarpeted, while the bed, with the narrow rug by its side, the washing-stand and the few clothes-pegs, were all huddled as much out of the way as possible. The place of honour in the centre of the room was given to the substantial table necessary for cutting out, while by the light of the window stood the sewing-machine. On the mantelpiece were china ornaments in couples, a pair of pink vases, and some cheap frames holding family photographs. On the walls were coloured texts and several gloomy memorial cards.

And within these precincts Evarne started upon a life the conditions of which she had hitherto never dreamed of, far less realised. Work commencing at eight in the morning, the stretch of hours until eight at night was unbroken save by a brief time for meals. Day in and day out—except for the blessed Sabbath—week following week in slow procession, still found her bent over her needle, stitch, stitch, stitching as fast as her skill allowed.

At first, while yet unbroken to the yoke, she many a time seriously feared that the day then passing would be the very last of its kind that she could possibly manage to endure. The nerve-pangs of irritability and impatience, of well-nigh uncontrollable rebellion and revolt—all concealed with difficulty, but not thereby conquered—seared her spirit far more deeply than her left forefinger was pricked and torn by the needle driven at unaccustomed speed. Sometimes she would stop working for a minute, straighten her back, let her hands, together with the material, drop loosely upon her lap, while she would glance over at Jean with an expression that said plainly, "Is it really possible to endure this?"

But Miss Brodie during work-hours was as a part of her machine—she never ceased, never looked either to the right or to the left—so that after a minute or two nothing remained for the as yet unresigned apprentice but to stifle a sigh—or maybe even a groan—and again take up the labour at which her whole nature was vigorously protesting.

She wondered if she was naturally idle, or if all other needlewomen had had to get the mastery over similar feelings to those that ramped in her breast, when the monotonous occupation had to be continued for long weary hours after it had become thoroughly uncongenial? Did Miss Brodie, for instance, not know what it was to feel every pulse of her body aching and crying for movement—change—liberty? Was she never conscious that her brain was frantically protesting against the maddening monotony—the unvarying sameness—the crushing tedium of pushing that needle in, then pulling that needle out, again and again and again, as steadily as her pulses beat or her heart throbbed? Did Jean never have to fight against an almost uncontrollable impulse to scream, shout, wave her arms, stamp, swear, play ball with her work, tear down "God Bless our Home," and throw it out of the window; do something—anything—wild, mad and unseemly, to relieve the tedium and assuage the awful tumult of overwrought nerves?

But whatever storms might rage within the recesses of her own mind, Miss Brodie was ever outwardly calm—but then Evarne was to all appearances equally passive, equally resigned. She never once complained. While pitying herself as frankly as she sorrowed over a squirrel upon the wheel; a wood-bird shut in a tiny cage; a young dog fastened to its kennel in a walled-in yard, strangling itself frantically against its collar; she suffered all in total silence.

However, Jean had an outside interest—a hope that beyond a doubt served to lighten and brighten the tedium of these days of toil. She was engaged to be married to a dashing red-coated soldier, and many of the ends of her evenings were spent in his inspiriting society.

Evarne's spare hours were passed in absolute loneliness and solitude. After supper she would wander out, generally along the Embankment, but if she had sufficient energy she would persevere as far as Hyde Park. At all events she would walk about somewhere until she was wearied, not returning home until it was time to go to bed. It was a grey, soul-crushing existence, and she grew depressed and spiritless beneath its burden.

She made no effort to change it for anything better. Miss Brodie was satisfied with her, and was always kind. One thing was as good as another, and incompetence was a drug in the labour market. Everyone, too, by whom she was now surrounded laboured more or less incessantly; work made up their lives. She was no miserable exception, no victim, no martyr. Her fate seemed but the common fate of all.

"It's a real pity you can't get a young man, Miss Stornway," said Miss Brodie, worried by her apprentice's unconcealable pallor and listlessness. "It certainly does seem to make everything so much easier."

The girl smiled and shook her head. Indeed, Camberwell was as likely to produce a "young man" for Evarne as was a desert island. Not that she was overlooked by the male sex; on the contrary, in common with every girl who is at once poor and beautiful, practically every man who had any sort of opportunity commenced, sooner or later, to make love to her. Quite often strange men turned and walked by her side in the parks, seeking to engage her in conversation. But not for one instant was the proud purity of the beautiful face disturbed. Evarne had loved Morris Kenyon as truly and purely as ever any young girl loved. By the shameful arts of the street rouÉ she was profoundly repelled. So as far as masculine society went, she lived the life of a young nun.

She seemed to have nothing left save memories, and these were all tainted with cruel bitterness. As the weary weeks lengthened into months the acuteness of all past emotions—joys and anguish alike—became dimmed, and then faded away. What had been once her life seemed now only a story she had read long ago. That brilliant room at "Mon Bijou"; the lovely garden with its winding mosaic walks; the blueness of the Naples Bay; the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland; her dainty flat and her carriage here in London; the vivid sun of Egypt—none of this was real, surely? Reality was scanty fare in a top garret—incessant stitching—loneliness—and nothing else!

And her love for Morris that she would once have sworn could have survived all blows, all passing of time, was as much a thing of the past as were all these other memories. Morris had slain it himself once and for ever. For some time she had cherished the corpse, not knowing it to be lifeless; but gradually the deceptive outward tokens of vitality faded away. A little longer and the dead thing fell to dust and was no more. The glamour of Morris's presence removed enabled her to see more clearly, not only the unforgivable nature of the insults with which he had cast her off, but the great wrong he had done her in the first place, and which had directly led down to these dregs wherein she was now drowning.

If she had any feeling for him other than indifference, it was hatred. She felt no gratitude—not one jot—for the money or the care and attention he had once lavished upon her. It had been nothing to him. And since she was merely one of many women who in turn occupied those rooms at "Mon Bijou," she had no more call to be grateful for any of the accompanying accessories of the position than had the horses that passed through his stables.

She was utterly discontented and unhappy in her present existence. True, she had safe shelter, sufficient to wear, and enough to eat to keep life within her—but, merciful Heaven, what a price she paid for that doubtful boon! Morning after morning she regained consciousness with reluctance, shrinking from the joyless, unbroken monotony of the day that stretched its weary length before her—anxious only to get it done and added to those that were already lived through. She never read now, for her eyes ached painfully long ere work was ended.

Tortured at first by her unemployed powers of heart and brain and soul fighting for expression, all too soon she became bitterly conscious that they were yielding to disuse—becoming crushed and deadened. It did seem hard to have to put all her strength, all her active energies of mind and body—all herself—into the making of cheap blouses. She felt she was being wasted, but that it was inevitable. What was being killed in her would not make money.

It was some time before she could realise that she had found her true level in life's struggle, and that needlework was her doom. At first she was always waiting for something to "turn up," for the unexpected to happen.

And as the conviction grew that this cruel question must be answered in the affirmative—that all heretofore had been but prelude, unstable and fleeting, that this was life now upon her in grim serious earnest—her heart grew bitter, and her once sweet, bright expression gave way to a settled look of sad discontent.

But through all this her resolution to lead evermore a "good" life never faltered. She would not even contemplate endeavouring to bring sparks of brightness into her cheerless existence by setting aflame any man's affection, legally or otherwise. Come what might, she had done with that sort of thing once and for all.

Mrs. Burling she visited once or twice, but her correspondence with both Margaret and Jess slackened and ceased. Separated and so unhappy, she found it difficult to know what to say to them, while they both could produce but heavy and laboured epistles. She liked Jean Brodie fairly well, but they were very opposed in character, and for the greater portion of each day the silence of the workroom was unbroken save for the clipping of the scissors or the whirring of the machine.