ounded so hollow; he became so often and so keenly sensible of
his insincerity,--a quality which, with others, he could consciously
rely upon as a resource, but which, before Maud, stung him. He was
driven to balance judgments, to hesitate in replies, to search his own
heart, as perhaps never before.

Artificial good humour, affected interest, mock sympathy, were as far
from her as was the least taint of indelicacy; every word she uttered
rang true, and her very phrases had that musical fall which only
associates itself with beautiful and honest thought. She never
exhibited gaiety, or a spirit of fun, but could raise a smile by an
exquisite shade of humour--humour which, as the best is, was more than
half sadness. Nor was she fond of mixing with people whom she did not
know well; when there was company at dinner, she generally begged to be
allowed to dine alone. Though always anxious to give pleasure to her
parents, she was most happy when nothing drew her from her own room;
there she would read and dream through hours There were times when the
old dreaded feelings took revenge; night-wakings, when she lay in cold
anguish, yearning for the dawn. She was not yet strong enough to face
past and future, secured in attained conviction. As yet, she could not
stir beyond the present, and in the enjoyment of the present was her
strength.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE MEANTIME

It was one Wednesday evening in early April, that Waymark found a
letter awaiting him, addressed in a hand he at once recognised.

"Will you come and see me? I am at home after eight o'clock till the
end of the week, and all day on Sunday.

I. S."

No distinct pleasure was aroused in Waymark as he read this. As was
always the case for hours after he had left Maud's presence, her face
and voice lived with him to the exclusion of every other thought. There
was even something of repulsion in the feeling excited by his thus
having the memory of Ida brought suddenly before him; her face came as
an unwelcome intruder upon the calm, grave mood which always possessed
him on these evenings. In returning home each Wednesday night, Waymark
always sought the speediest and quietest route, unwilling to be brought
in contact with that life of the streets which at other times delighted
him. Ida's note seemed a summons from that world which, for the moment,
he held at a distance. But the call was not to be silenced at his will.
He began to wonder about her lif