i8o 
THE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
motive of self-advertisement in her charity. 
And then again that recurring question came 
into her mind, “ Who was the unknown 
writer ? ” It was all told with such fidelity 
of detail that she saw at once that it could 
only have been related by the tramp himself. 
And she thought again of his sad, half- 
wistful eyes. 
Well, it was very annoying. Of course, 
she would be chaffed about it by her friends, 
and those who were not her friends would 
say, “ How clever of Ivy to get such a good 
notice for herself!” That was really the 
annoying part of it. 
But when she read the article again she 
felt as if the writer were talking to her, as 
if he were saying all the things that he would 
be afraid to say in her presence. It was 
audacious, but as she read between the 
lines it seemed that the wretch was making 
love to her, with a twinkle in his eye. 
In the evening, when she returned to tea 
in her flat, there was a ring at her bell, and 
the maid brought in a card. “ Harberton 
Lee,” she read, and then on the corner, 
“ The Wire” Of course, she knew the name 
at once. Everybody read the Wire, and 
everybody knew “ Harberton Lee,” the 
principal descriptive writer, who travelled 
half over the world for his paper. It belonged 
to the same proprietor as the Afternoon. 
She would be able to insist on explanations. 
“ Good evening,” she heard a man say, in 
a curious, half-mocking voice, and imme- 
diately she knew that the voice held familiar 
echoes for her, and she looked up at Har- 
berton Lee. 
She saw before her an immaculately- 
clothed man, tall and thin. She had con- 
fused impressions, but out of them she retained 
a striking memory of little details in his 
dress that seemed to obtrude themselves on 
her notice because of their very perfection — 
the little pearl in the black silk tie, the neat 
patent-leather boots, and the well-shaped 
hands gloved in grey, one of them holding 
a knobbed malacea cane. Then she looked at 
his face. His eyes were bright and brown and 
intelligent. His face was freshly shaven now. 
She felt a little quiver thrill all through her 
as she looked upon the tramp of the wet 
Embankment, no longer in rags, but dressed 
with all the polished splendour of prosperity. 
“ Good evening,” he said, coming farther 
into the room. 
He was a little uncertain of his ground. 
He smiled now, much in the way that a 
schoolboy might who has been caught play- 
ing some prank. 
She was angry as the full truth dawned 
on her. She felt that she had been tricked 
and cheated. No words passed between 
them, but he saw the shadow of anger 
across her face. 
“ I say,” he said, boyishly holding out his 
hand, “ I’m sorry — 1 didn’t think ” 
“ Don’t talk nonsense,” she said. 
She turned her head away, and glanced 
at him out of the corner of her eye. He was 
very good-looking, and it was a pleasant 
relief to find that her tramp was only a fantasy 
after all, 
“ I had to do something to show my 
gratitude,” he said. “ I really felt what I 
wrote. Why should good deeds like yours of 
yesterday remain unknown ? Why shouldn’t 
I write of the beautiful, tender mercies of life ? 
Ah, now,” a coaxing note came into his voice, 
“ don’t be cross with me, Miss Marling. How 
was I to know you wouldn’t like it ? ” 
“ But I do like it,” she cried, with a little 
impatient gesture. “ That’s what annoys 
me so. I wonder that you have the imper- 
tinence to stand there smiling, when you 
know that I’m not really angry.” 
At that he sighed and sat down ; took oil 
his gloves and glanced wistfully at the 
tea-table. 
“ If you can tell me what you meant by it 
all, you shall have some tea. Why were you 
playing at being a beggar-man ? ” 
“ Why,” he said, “ for the same reason 
that you played a beggar-woman. Anything 
for copy, you know. I wanted to do some 
‘ specials ’ on the Embankment ” 
The maid put the finishing touches to the 
tea-table and disappeared. 
She frowned. 14 You’ve taken away all 
the good that I thought I had done to that 
poor man.” 
“ Nothing of the kind. Your two sove- 
reigns gladdened the life of a real tramp. 1 
met one as I danced homewards and gave them 
to him. ‘ With Miss Marling 5 s compliments,’ 
I said. Poor man, he thought I was either a 
madman or a thief. 
“ Ma’am,” he said (there was a hint of the 
Irish brogue in his voice), “ you took me in 
so completely on the seat that 1 felt a little 
revengeful. Besides, think of me only as the 
poor devil of a tramp that I am, in spite of 
these fine feathers, and be as kind to me as 
you were to him.” 
“ One lump or two ? ” she asked, poising the 
sugar-tongs above the sugar-bowl. 
