She opened her eyes at his coning, but closed them again almost immediately--less, it seemed, from any consciousness of his presence than from sheer exhaustion.
"I am glad that you are better," he whispered crossing the room to her side.
"Thank you," she murmured almost inaudibly.
Tavernake stood looking down upon her, and his sense of perplexity increased.

Stretched on the hard horsehair couch she seemed, indeed, pitifully thin and younger than her years.

The scowl, which had passed from her face, had served in some measure as a disguise.
"We shall have to leave here in a few minutes," he said, softly.

"They will want to close the shop." "I am so sorry," she faltered, "to have given you all this trouble.

You must send me to a hospital or the workhouse--anywhere." "You are sure that there are no friends to whom I can send ?" he asked.
"There is no one!" She closed her eyes and Tavernake sat quite still on the end of her couch, his elbow upon his knee, his head resting upon his hand.
Presently, the rush of customers having ceased, the chemist came in.
"I think, if I were you, I should take her home now," he remarked.
"She'll probably drop off to sleep very soon and wake up much stronger.
I have made up a prescription here in case of exhaustion." Tavernake stared at the man.