.' Here Caffyn strolled leisurely towards
them, and the introduction was made. 'Of course you have heard of Mr.
Ashburn's great book, "Illusion"?' Gilda Featherstone said, as she
mentioned Mark's name.

'Heard of nothing else lately,' said Caffyn. 'After which I am ashamed
to have to own I haven't read it, but it's the disgraceful truth.'

Mark felt the danger of being betrayed by a speech like this into
saying something too hideously fatuous, over the memory of which he
would grow hot with shame in the night-watches, so he contented
himself with an indulgent smile, perhaps, in default of some
impossible combination of wit and modesty, his best available
resource.

Besides, the new acquaintance made him strangely uneasy; he felt
warned to avoid him by one of those odd instincts which (although we
scarcely ever obey them) are surely given us for our protection; he
could not meet the cold light eyes which seemed to search him through
and through.

'Mr. Ashburn and I were just discussing somebody's character,' said
Miss Featherstone, by way of ending an awkward pause.

'Poor somebody!' drawled Caffyn, with an easy impertinence which he
had induced many girls, and Gilda amongst them, to tolerate, if not
admire.

'You need not pity her,' said Gilda, indignantly; 'we were _defending_
her.'

'Ah!' said Caffyn, 'from one another.'

'No, we were not; and if you are going to be cynical, and satirical,
and all that, you can go away. Well, sit down, then, and behave
yourself. What, must you go, Mr. Ashburn? Good-bye, then. Mr. Caffyn,
I want you to tell me what you _really_ think about----'

Mark heard no more than this; he was glad to escape, to get away from
Caffyn's scrutiny. 'He looked as if he knew I was a humbug!' he
thought afterwards; and also to think at his leisure over this new
discovery, and all it meant for him.

He knew her name now; he saw a prospect of meeting her at some time
or other in the house he had just left; but perhaps he might not even
have to wait for that.

This little girl, whose childish letter he had tossed aside a few days
since in his blindness, who else could she be but the owner of the dog
after which he had clambered up the railway slope? And he had actually
been about to neglect her appeal!

Well, he would write now. Who could say what might not come of it? At
all events, _she_ would read his letter.

That letter gave Mark an infinite deal of trouble. After attentively
reading