nderstand,' she said faintly. 'I can never
forget this place. I pray I may never wish to forget it. If you will
excuse me, I shall get ready now, so as not to keep Mrs. Fordyce waiting
when she comes.'

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

FAREWELL.

The carriage was at the door, and they stood face to face, the young man
and the maiden, in the little office up-stairs, to say farewell.

'I am quite ready, Walter,' Gladys said in a still, quiet voice. 'I am
going away.'

'Are you? Well, good-bye.'

He held out his hand. His face was pale, but his mouth was set like
iron, and these apparently indifferent words seemed to force themselves
from between his teeth. Sign of emotion or sorrow he exhibited none, but
the maiden, who understood and who loved him,--yes, who loved him,--was
not in the least deceived.

'Have you nothing else to say than that, Walter? It is very little when
I am going away,' she said wistfully.

'No,' he replied in the same steady, even tone, 'nothing. You had better
not keep them waiting, these grand people, any longer. They are not used
to it, and they don't like it.'

'Let them wait, and if they don't like it they can go away,' she
answered, with unwonted sharpness. 'I want to say, Walter, that if I
could have stayed here, I would. I would rather be here than anywhere.
It once seemed very dreadful to me, but now I love it. But though I am
going away, I will come to see you very often, very often indeed.'

'Don't come,' he answered sharply. 'Don't come at all.'

A vague terror gathered in her eyes, and her mouth trembled.

'Now you are unkind, Walter, unkind and unreasonable. But men are often
unreasonable, so I will forgive you. If I may not come here, will you
promise to come to Bellairs Crescent and see me?'

Then Walter flung up his head and laughed, that laugh which always
stabbed Gladys.

'To have the door slammed in my face by a footman or a smart servant?
No, thank you.'

'Very well. Good-bye. If you cast me off, Walter, I can't help it.
Good-bye, and God bless you. I hope I shall see you sometimes, and if
not, I shall try to bear it, only it is very hard.'

She was a woman in keenness of feeling, a very child in guilelessness.
She could not hide her pain.

Then Walter, feeling it all so keenly, and hating himself with a mortal
hatred for his savage candour, condescended to make an explanation.

'In a week,' he began, 'you will view everything in a different light.