rsmith."

He had asked the question with such apparent inconsequence that the
thought of denying him the information had not occurred to her.
Undoubtedly it was foolish to refuse his offer. She would get wet
through before she reached Hammersmith. The tarpaulin only covered
her skirt, and in the lap that it made was already a pool of water
swilling backwards and forwards with the rocking of the 'bus. Through
her mind raced a swift calculation, estimating the benefits she would
gain by keeping dry. They were not many in number, but they entered
the balance, dragged down the scales of her decision. The hat she
was wearing--it was not a best hat--but some few evenings before,
she had retrimmed it; there was matter for consideration in that.
The frame was a good one. It could be trimmed again and again, so
long as it met with those requirements which in Sally's mind were
governed by a vogue of fashion that she followed reverently, though
always, perhaps, some few paces in the rear. A severe wetting might
so alter the shape of that frame as to make it for ever unwearable.
Her coat was serge--short, ending at the waist; the feather boa that
clung round her neck, they would inevitably suffer without
protection. For the moment she felt angry with herself. She hoped
almost, since he was there, that he would make his offer again. It
is these little things--the saving of a feather boa, the destruction
of a flimsy hat frame--that are the seed of big issues. Every book,
as is this, is in its way a study in the evolution of a crisis, the
germ of tiny incident which through a thousand stages grows in
strength and magnitude until it takes upon itself the stature of some
giant event.

The thought of her clothes that had entered Sally's mind brought her
one step further, prepared her for the silent permission she gave
him, when he took the vacant seat beside her and shared the umbrella
between them.

"By the time you reached Hammersmith," he said, "you know you'd be
soaked."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she replied.

"Probably not--but it might be the last."

"How?"

"Influenza--pneumonia--congestion of the lungs--of such are the
kingdom of heaven."

She looked at him quickly--that sudden look of one who for a moment
sees into another and a new mind, as passing some strange house, you
look with curious surprise through the unexpectedly opened door into
another's life. The glance was as quick, as little comprehensive.
Ju