She sat sideways,
leaning against the wall, in the slack, childlike attitude of exhausted
misery.

He came close. She did not stir at the sound of his feet trampling the
slush. Her eyes were shut, her mouth open; she breathed, like a child,
the half-suffocated breath that comes after long crying. He stood
looking at her, tongue-tied with pity. Every now and then her throat
shook like a child's with guileless hiccoughing sobs.

He stooped over her and called her name.

"Mrs. Tailleur."

She turned from him and sank sidelong into the corner, hiding her face.
The long wings of her cloak parted and hung back from her cowering body.
Her thin garments, beaten smooth by the rain, clung like one tissue to
the long slope above her knees. Lucy laid his hand gently on her gown.
She was drenched to the skin. It struck through, cold and shuddering, to
his touch. She pushed his hand away and sat up.

"I think," she said, "you'd better go away."

"Do you want me to go?"

"I don't want you to see me like this. I'm--I'm not pretty to look at."

"That doesn't matter in the very least. Besides, I can hardly see you in
this light."

He drew her cloak about her and fastened it. He could feel, from the
nearness of her flushed mouth, the heat and the taste of grief. She
flung her head back to the wall away from him. Her hood slipped, and he
put his arm behind her shoulders and raised it, and drew it gently
forward to shelter her head from the rough wall. His hand was wet with
the rain from her loose hair.

"How long have you been walking about in the rain before you came here?"

She tried to speak, and with the effort her sobs broke out in violence.
It struck him again, and with another pang of pity, how like a child she
was in the completeness of her abandonment! He sat down beside her,
leaning forward, his face hidden in his hands. He felt that to hide his
own face was somehow to screen her.

Her sobbing went on, and her hand, stretched toward him unawares,
clutched at the top of the wooden seat.

"Would you like me to go away and come back again?" he said presently.

"No!" she cried. And at her own cry a terrible convulsion shook her. He
could feel her whole body strain and stiffen with the effort to control
it. Then she was calm.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I told you, didn't I, that you'd better
go away?"

"Do you suppose that I'm going to leave you here? Just when I've found
you?"

"Miss Keating's left me. Di