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 psychology of saints and prostitutes. As Grover watched this girl sipping her cherry brandy he diverted himself by confuting the arguments of his professor. Sooner or later life riddled all academic theories, and sooner or later one found oneself willy-nilly on the side of the sentimentalists. At any rate here was a little prostitute capable of something very like saintliness,—Grover was ready to swear to it. No vice was unfamiliar to her; possibly no vice repellent, yet at this moment her countenance, like a mirror which remains unsoiled by the murkiest of its reflections, conveyed an impression of essential virginity.

As the strong, hot grog stole through him, his fancy became abnormally active and wove a background for the tidy, blond girl in the corner. He pictured her alone in a little room, mending her clothes, possibly with glasses on to save her eyes, sipping teaspoonfuls of a bitter tonic to save her health, preparing a fortifying breakfast of milk and eggs, tucking away the earnings of the previous night, making a laborious calculation of the amount still needed to buy herself a coat trimmed with fur, writing an illiterate postcard to a more fortunate friend whose lover had carried her off to Monte Carlo, giving a final touch to her lips and eyebrows, a little dab of polish to her shoes, pausing before going out to exchange the time of day with the concierge's wife, partly from policy, partly from a craving for some respectable woman's good will.