thought with anger rather than fear, for her behaviour seemed to prove
that nothing had happened save the inevitable breach with Mrs. Tubbs.
Just as he had said to himself that it was no use waiting about all the
afternoon, he saw Clara approaching. At sight of him she manifested
neither surprise nor annoyance, but came forward with eyes carelessly
averted. Not having seen her for so long, Sidney was startled by the
change in her features; her cheeks had sunk, her eyes were unnaturally
dark, there was something worse than the familiar self-will about her
lips.

'I've been waiting to see you,' he said. 'Will you walk along here for
a minute or two?'

'What do you want to say? I'm tired.'

'Mrs. Tubbs has told your mother what has happened, and she came to me.
Your father doesn't know yet.'

'It's nothing to me whether he knows or not. I've left the place,
that's all, and I'm going to live here till I've got another.'

'Why not go home?'

'Because I don't choose to. I don't see that it concerns you, Mr.
Kirkwood.'

Their eyes met, and Sidney felt how little fitted he was to reason with
the girl, even would she consent to hear him. His mood was the wrong
one; the torrid sunshine seemed to kindle an evil fire in him, and with
difficulty he kept back words of angry unreason; he even--strangest of
inconsistencies--experienced a kind of brutal pleasure in her obvious
misery. Already she was reaping the fruit of obstinate folly. Clara
read what his eyes expressed; she trembled with responsive hostility.

'No, it doesn't concern me,' Sidney replied, half turning away. 'But
it's perhaps as well you should know that Mrs. Tubbs is doing her best
to take away your good name. However little we are to each other, it's
my duty to tell you that, and put you on your guard. I hope your father
mayn't hear these stories before you have spoken to him yourself.'

Clara listened with a contemptuous smile.

'What has she been saying?'

'I shan't repeat it.'

As he gazed at her, the haggardness of her countenance smote like a
sword-edge through all the black humours about his heart, piercing the
very core of love and pity. He spoke in a voice of passionate appeal.

'Clara, come home before it is too late! Come with me--now--come at
once? Thank heaven you have got out of that place! Come home, and stay
there quietly till we can find you something better.'

'I'll die rather than go home!' was her answer, flung at him as if in
h