hope?'

'Yes--I can think of you as a friend, Mr. Widdowson.'

A large boat was passing with four or five young men and girls who sang
in good time and tune. Only a song of the music-hall or of the nigger
minstrels, but it sounded pleasantly with the plash of the oars. A fine
sunset had begun to glow upon the river; its warmth gave a tone to
Monica's thin cheeks.

'And you will let me see you again before long? Let me drive you to
Hampton Court next Sunday--or any other place you would choose.'

'Very likely I shall be invited to my friend's in Chelsea.'

'Do you seriously think of leaving the shop?'

'I don't know--I must have time to think about it--'

'Yes--yes. But if I write a line to you, say on Friday, would you let
me know whether you can come?'

'Please to let me refuse for next Sunday. The one after, perhaps--'

He bent his head, looked desperately grave, and drove the boat on
Monica was disturbed, but held to her resolution, which Widdowson
silently accepted. The rest of the way they exchanged only brief
sentences, about the beauty of the sky, the scenes on river or bank,
and other impersonal matters. After landing, they walked in silence
towards Chelsea Bridge.

'Now I must go quickly home,' said Monica.

'But how?'

'By train--from York Road to Walworth Road.'

Widdowson cast a curious glance at her. One would have imagined that he
found something to disapprove in this ready knowledge of London transit.

'I will go with you to the station, then.'

Without a word spoken, they walked the short distance to York Road.
Monica took her ticket, and offered a hand for good-bye.

'I may write to you,' said Widdowson, his face set in an expression of
anxiety, 'and make an appointment, if possible, for the Sunday after
next?'

'I shall be glad to come--if I can.'

'It will be a very long time to me.'

With a faint smile, Monica hurried away to the platform. In the train
she looked like one whose mind is occupied with grave trouble. Fatigue
had suddenly overcome her; she leaned back and closed her eyes.

At a street corner very near to Messrs. Scotcher's establishment she
was intercepted by a tall, showily-dressed, rather coarse-featured
girl, who seemed to have been loitering about. It was Miss Eade.

'I want to speak to you, Miss Madden. Where did you go with Mr.
Bullivant this morning?'

The voice could not have been more distinctive of a London shop-girl;
its tone signified irritation.