of what he might think, she
leaned against him, as if for protection--leaned against him to weep
bitter-sweet, unrestrained tears upon his shoulder.

"Poor little girl! Poor little Mavis!" he murmured.

The remark reinforced her tears.

The fog again enveloped them and seemed to cut them off from the
observation of passers-by. It was as if their tenderness for each other
had found an oasis in the wilderness of London's heartlessness.

Mavis wept unrestrainedly, contentedly, as if secure or sympathetic
understanding. Although he spoke, she gave small heed to his words. She
revelled in the unaccustomed luxury of friendship expressed by a man
for whom she, already, had something in the nature of an affectionate
regard.

Presently, when she became calmer, she gave more attention to what he
was saying.

"You must give me your address and I'll write to my people at once," he
said. "The mater will be no end of glad to see you again, and you must
come down. I'll be down often and--and--Oh, little Mavis, won't it be
wonderful, if all our lives we were to bless the day we met again?"

Although her sobs had ceased, she did not reply.

Two obsessions occupied her thoughts: one was an instinct of abasement
before the man who had such a tender concern for her future; the other,
a fierce pride, which revolted at the thought of her being under a
possibly lifelong obligation to the man with whom, in the far-off days
of her childhood, she had been on terms of economic equality. He
produced his handkerchief and gently wiped her eyes. She did not know
whether to be grateful for, or enraged at, this attention. The two
conflicting emotions surged within her; their impulsion was a cause
which threatened to exert a common effect, inasmuch as they urged her
to leave Windebank.

This sentiment was strengthened by the reflection that she was unworthy
of his regard. She had, of set purpose, lied to him, denied that she
was the friend of his early youth. True, he had previously insulted
her, but, considering the circumstances, he had every excuse for his
behaviour. He certainly led a fast life, but, if anything, Mavis the
more admired him for this symptom of virility; she also dimly believed
that such conduct qualified him to win a wife who, in every respect,
was above reproach. She was poor and friendless, she again reflected.
Above all, she had lied to him. She was hopelessly unworthy of one who,
in obedience to the sentimental whim sh