to
the top of the bus, she felt she could not face the inside stuffiness.
She was tired and, had she but owned to it, hungry. It was already late
afternoon and she had only had a cup of coffee and a bun since her
arrival.

As the bus jolted and bumped down Park Lane and then along
Knightsbridge, she sat huddled up and miserable on the back seat, the
day being well in accord with her mood. She was only dimly aware that
they were passing the flat where she and Gilbert had lived, she was more
acutely conscious of the couple who sat just in front of her--the man's
arm flung round the girl's shoulders, her head very close to his.

Waves of misery closed round Joan. A memory, which had not troubled her
for some time, of Gilbert's hands about her and the scent of heliotrope,
stirred across her mind. She could feel the hot tears splashing on her
ungloved hands, a fit of sobbing gulped at her throat. Lest she should
altogether lose control of herself she rose quickly and fumbled her way
down the steps. The bus had just reached the corner of Sloane Street.
She would go across the Park, she decided, and have her cry out. It was
no use going to look for rooms in her present state, no landlady would
dream of having her.

Half blinded by her tears and the fog combined, she turned and started
to cross the road. Voices yelled at her from either side, a motor car
with enormous headlights came straight at her out of the fog. Joan
hesitated, if she had stayed quite still the danger would have flashed
past her, but she was already too unnerved to judge of what her action
should be. As if fascinated by the lights she shut her eyes and moved
blindly towards them.

There were more sharp shouts, a great grinding noise of brakes and
rushing wheels brought to a sudden pause, then the darkness of black,
absolute night surged over and beyond the pain which for a moment had
held Joan. She floated out, so it seemed, on to a sea of nothingness,
and a great peace settled about her heart.

CHAPTER VIII

"With heart made empty of delight
And hands that held no more fair things;
I questioned her;--'What shall requite
The savour of my offerings?'"

E. NESBIT.

"You have got your back against the wall, you have got to fight, you
have got to fight, to fight!"

The words pounded across Joan's mind over and over again. She struggled
in obedience to their message against