e languid,
handsome Miss Devine. The stranger would have it that Miss Devine was a
noble-souled, high-minded young woman, something midway between a Flora
Macdonald and a Joan of Arc. Miss Devine, on the contrary, knew herself
to be a sleek, luxury-loving animal, quite willing to sell herself to
the bidder who could offer her the finest clothes, the richest foods,
the most sumptuous surroundings. Such a bidder was to hand in the person
of a retired bookmaker, a somewhat greasy old gentleman, but exceedingly
rich and undoubtedly fond of her.

Miss Devine, having made up her mind that the thing had got to be done,
was anxious that it should be done quickly. And here it was that
the stranger's ridiculous opinion of her not only irritated but
inconvenienced her. Under the very eyes of a person--however
foolish--convinced that you are possessed of all the highest attributes
of your sex, it is difficult to behave as though actuated by only the
basest motives. A dozen times had Miss Devine determined to end the
matter by formal acceptance of her elderly admirer's large and flabby
hand, and a dozen times--the vision intervening of the stranger's grave,
believing eyes--had Miss Devine refused decided answer. The stranger
would one day depart. Indeed, he had told her himself, he was but a
passing traveller. When he was gone it would be easier. So she thought
at the time.

One afternoon the stranger entered the room where she was standing
by the window, looking out upon the bare branches of the trees in
Bloomsbury Square. She remembered afterwards, it was just such another
foggy afternoon as the afternoon of the stranger's arrival three months
before. No one else was in the room. The stranger closed the door, and
came towards her with that curious, quick-leaping step of his. His long
coat was tightly buttoned, and in his hands he carried his old felt hat
and the massive knotted stick that was almost a staff.

"I have come to say good-bye," explained the stranger. "I am going."

"I shall not see you again?" asked the girl.

"I cannot say," replied the stranger. "But you will think of me?"

"Yes," she answered with a smile, "I can promise that."

"And I shall always remember you," promised the stranger, "and I wish
you every joy--the joy of love, the joy of a happy marriage."

The girl winced. "Love and marriage are not always the same thing," she
said.

"Not always," agreed the stranger, "but in your case they will be one