“What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year.
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