She saw
a lady who had asked her to try on a white lace evening coat staring
at them.

"What's the matter with your hands?" The question came sharply.

"I scalded them a little this morning," Win explained.

"Oh! I'm glad it isn't a _disease."_

The girl blushed faintly, ashamed, glanced down at the offending pink
fingers, and turning slowly round to display the cloak, suddenly
looked up into the eyes of Peter Rolls.

She could not help starting and drawing in her breath. For half a
second her brain whirled and she thought that she imagined him, that
it was just such another vision as those of last night when she had
put on the Moon dress.

His eyes were looking at her as they had looked then, and they were
the good blue eyes of Mr. Balm of Gilead. It could not be that he was
really here gazing at her. It must be some other man like him. But no!
He had taken off his hat. He was saying something in the well
remembered--too well remembered!--voice.

"How do you do, Miss Child? When you've finished with this lady, I
shall be so much obliged if you can speak to me for a minute."

She bowed her head--quite a polite, ordinary sort of bow, just like
that of any well-trained saleslady to a prospective customer intending
to wait till she was free. But really it did not mean politeness at
all. It meant that she had to hide her face, and that it was taking
every square inch of nerve force she had to behave in the least like
a saleslady.

It was seeing Peter Rolls suddenly--Peter Rolls in flesh and bone and
muscle and magnetism of eyes, which told her in a devastating flash a
thing about herself she had feared for months--ever since the day she
turned her back upon Mr. Balm of Gilead and the _Monarchic_.

She was in love with him. Hideously, desperately, overwhelmingly in
love with him, just as ridiculous girls always were with men they
oughtn't to think of. Probably he had tried to make her so at first
with his friendly, chivalrous ways that hid blacknesses underneath.

She had escaped, thanks to his sister. And it looked as if those
horrid hints had indeed been true, otherwise he would not have
troubled to persist after his snubbing. For he had persisted. Some
glint of blue light in the steady eyes told her that. This was not a
coincidence. Mr. Rolls had the air of having found her at last. She
must make him sorry for it. Because, after her experience of the other
man who had persisted--though she thought herself fo