ing hansom. When
this drew up to the pavement, he said:

"Get in, please."

"But--"

"Get in," he commanded.

The girl obeyed him: something in the man's voice compelled obedience.

He sat beside her.

"Now, tell me your address."

Mavis shook her head.

"Tell me your address."

"Nothing on earth will make me."

"The man's waiting."

"Let him."

"Drive anywhere. I'll tell you where to go later," Windebank called to
the cabman.

The cab started. The man and the girl sat silent. Mavis was not
reproaching herself for having got into the cab with Windebank; her
mind was full of the strange trick which fate had played her in
throwing herself and her old-time playmate together. There seemed
design in the action. Perhaps, after all, their meeting was the reply
to her prayer in the tea-shop.

The cab drove along the almost deserted thoroughfare. It was now
between ten and eleven, a time when the flame of the day seems to die
down before bursting out into a last brilliance, when the houses of
entertainment are emptied into the streets.

Mavis stole a glance at the man beside her. Her eye fell on his opera
hat, the rich fur lining of his overcoat; lastly, on his face. His
whole atmosphere suggested ample means, self-confidence, easy content
with life. Then she looked at her cloak, the condition of which was now
little removed from shabbiness. The pressure of her feet on the floor
of the cab reminded her how sadly her shoes were down at heel. The
contrast between their two states irked Mavis: she was resentful at the
fact of his possessing all the advantages in life of which she had been
deprived. If he had been visited with the misfortune that had assailed
her, and if she had been left scathless, it would not have been so bad:
he was a man, who could have fought for his own hand, without being
hindered by the obstacles which weigh so heavily on those of her own
sex, who seek to win for themselves a foothold on the slippery inclines
of life. She found herself hating him more for his prosperity than for
the way in which he had insulted her.

"Have you changed your mind?" asked Windebank presently.

"No."

"Likely to?"

"No."

"We can't talk here, and a fog's coming up. Wouldn't you like something
to eat?"

"I'm not hungry--now."

"Where do you usually feed?"

"At an Express Dairy."

"Eh!"

"You get a large cup of tea for tuppence there."

"A tea-shop! But it wouldn't be open so late."

"Loc