He got into the shelter of a doorway and took stock of himself. He was not hurt, and he was not arrested—more than he had any right to expect. He swore at himself and his luck for a while, and then turned his thoughts to practical matters. He had no money, and no place to sleep; he must begin begging again.
He went out, hunching his shoulders together and shivering at the touch of the icy rain. Coming down the street toward him was a lady, well dressed, and protected by an umbrella; and he turned and walked beside her. “Please, ma’am,” he began, “could you lend me the price of a night’s lodging? I’m a poor working-man—”
Then, suddenly, he stopped short. By the light of a street lamp he had caught sight of the lady’s face. He knew her.
It was Alena Jasaityte, who had been the belle of hi
