d, came to an abrupt end on
the first occasion when he ventured to speak to her. Womanlike, she had
been longing for him to do so for some time, but resented it bitterly
when he did. Perhaps something faintly contemptuous, a shadowed hint
that he had noticed her interest in him, flamed up the desire to snub
him in her heart, or perhaps it was a feeling of self-shame to find
herself so poor a beggar at friendship's gate.

For a week he had met her at the same place and followed her on her way
down Victoria Street. Then one night, just as they came under the lights
of Vauxhall Clock tower, he spoke to her.

"Doing anything to-night?" he said. "Shall we dine together?"

She turned from him in a white heat of anger, more with herself than
with him, though that, of course, it was not given him to know. But he
caught a glimpse of her face and read his answer, and since he was in
reality a nice boy, and insult had been the last thought in his mind, he
took off his hat quickly and apologized.

"I am sure I beg your pardon," he said; "I can see that I have made a
mistake."

Joan did not answer him, she had moved quickly away in the direction of
Digby Street, but as she passed by the dingy houses she knew that he was
not following any more, and she felt the hot, hard lump in her throat
which is so difficult to swallow. She had wanted to go to dinner with
him, she had wanted to, that was the thought that mocked at her all
night.

It was one evening about a fortnight after that episode that Rose called
Joan into her room on their way upstairs.

"I want to talk to you," she said, closing the door behind them. "Has
Miss Nigel spoken yet?"

"To me?" asked Joan; "what about?"

"I see, then, she hasn't," Rose answered, "but she will soon. Did you
notice that the night before last Miss Wembly, who sits at the next
table to ours, had a guest to dinner?"

"No," Joan admitted; "but why? What has it got to do with me?"

"I am coming to that," the other answered; she stood with her head
averted, looking for a cigarette. "I am always a damned silent person
myself," she went on, "and I do not think anyone can accuse me of being
curious about their pasts. I do not want to know a blessed thing about
yours, for instance, but that guest of Miss Wembly's was a nurse from
St. George's Hospital."

"Oh," said Joan blankly; she was standing just within the door, her back
against the clothes that hung on it.

"Well," Rose hurried on, "it