cally, yet with her own smile—the smile that still stamps her in the frowsy woman's memory as "that pleasant-spoken lady."
She paused a moment on the dirty pavement, and then gave the cabman the address of the mother and sister, the address of the little house—small, but very convenient—and with a garden—such a lovely old garden—and so unusual in the middle of a town.
The cab stopped at a large, sparkling, plate-glassy shop—a very high-class fruiterer's and greengrocer's.
The name on the elaborately gilded facia was, beyond any doubt, Eden—Frederick Eden.
Mrs. Despard got out and walked into the shop. To this hour the scent of Tangerine oranges brings to her a strange, sick, helpless feeling of disillusionment.
A stout well-oiled woman, in a very tight puce velveteen bodice with bright buttons and a large yellow lace collar, fastened with a blue enamel brooch, leaned forward interrogatively.
"Mrs. Cave?" said Mrs. Despard.
"Don't know the name, madam."
