resses
crowned nobly the head which once held itself with such defiant grace.
She did not change her dress, which, though it had suffered from wear,
was well-fitting and of better material than Farringdon Road Buildings
were wont to see; a sober draping which became her tall elegance as she
moved. At a quarter to nine she arranged the veil upon her head so that
she could throw her hat aside without disturbing it; then, taking the
lamp in her hand, and the key of the Hollands' door, she went forth.

No one met her on the stairs. She was safe in the cold deserted parlour
where she had stood this morning. Cold, doubtless, but she could not be
conscious of it; in her veins there seemed rather to be fire than
blood. Her brain was clear, but in an unnatural way; the throbbing at
her temples ought to have been painful, but only excited her with a
strange intensity of thought. And she felt, amid it all, a dread of
what was before her; only the fever, to which she abandoned herself
with a sort of reckless confidence, a faith that it would continue till
this interview was over, overcame an impulse to rush back into her
hiding-place, to bury herself in shame, or desperately whelm her
wretchedness in the final oblivion. . . .

He was very punctual. The heavy bell of St. Paul's had not reached its
ninth stroke when she heard his knock at the door.

He came in without speaking, and stood as if afraid to look at her. The
lamp, placed on a side-table, barely disclosed all the objects within
the four walls; it illumined Sidney's face, but Clara moved so that she
was in shadow. She began to speak.

'You understood my note? The people who live here are away, and I have
ventured to borrow their room. They are friends of my father's.'

At the first word, he was surprised by the change in her voice and
accentuation. Her speech was that of an educated woman; the melody
which always had such a charm for him had gained wonderfully in
richness. Yet it was with difficulty that she commanded utterance, and
her agitation touched him in a way quite other than he was prepared
for. In truth, he knew not what experience he had anticipated, but the
reality, now that it came, this unimaginable blending of memory with
the unfamiliar, this refinement of something that he had loved, this
note of pity struck within him by such subtle means, affected his
inmost self. Immediately he laid stern control upon his feelings, but
all the words which he had desi