. But would she ever go back? It seemed to
her fantastic, impossible, that she should ever go back. It seemed to
her that she was netted by destiny. In any case she knew that she could
not, meanwhile, give to that group in Bursley even a part of herself.
Hilda could never give a part of herself. Moreover, she was a bad
letter-writer. And so, if among themselves the group at Bursley charged
her with inconstancy, she must accept the accusation, to which she was
inevitably exposed by the very ardour of her temperament.

The putting-on of brakes took her unawares. The train was in Brighton,
sliding over the outskirts of the town. Miss Gailey opened her
apprehensive eyes. Hilda saw steep streets of houses that sprawled on
the hilly mounds of the great town like ladders: reminiscent of certain
streets of her native district, yet quite different, a physiognomy
utterly foreign to her. This then, was Brighton. That which had been a
postmark became suddenly a reality, shattering her preconceptions of it,
and disappointing her she knew not why. She glanced forward, through the
window, and saw the cavern of the station. In a few seconds they would
have arrived, and her formal mission would be over. She was very
agitated and very nervous. George Cannon had promised to meet them.
Would he meet them?

The next instant she saw the platform. She saw George Cannon,
conspicuous and debonair in a new suit, swinging his ebony stick. The
train stopped. He descried them.

"There he is!" she said, bravely pretending to be gay. And she thought:
"I could not believe that this moment would come, but it has come."

She had anticipated relief from this moment, but she was aware of no
relief. On the contrary, she felt most uncomfortably apologetic to Sarah
Gailey for George Cannon, and to George Cannon for Sarah Gailey. She had
the constraint of a sinner. And, by the side of George Cannon on the
platform, she was aware of her shabbiness and of her girlish fragility.
Nevertheless, she put her shoulders back with a gesture like his own,
thinking proudly, and trying to make her eyes speak: "Well, here is
Sarah Gailey,--thanks to me!"

As Sarah greeted him, Hilda observed, with some dismay, a curious, very
slight stiffening of her demeanour--familiar phenomenon, which denoted
that Sarah was in the grip of a secret grievance. "Poor old thing!" she
thought ruefully. "I'd imagined she'd forgiven him for bringing her
here; but she hasn't."

III