u."

As the old lady went down the dusty Temple stairs she stamped a small
foot angrily on the worn oak.

"Fool!" she said, "how could you? Hateful, shameless, unwomanly! And
it's all for nothing, too. He'll never do it. It's _too_ mad!"

Michael went straight to Sylvia, and told his tale.

"And I felt I couldn't," he said; "she is the daintiest, sweetest little
old lady. I couldn't marry her and see her every day and live in the
hope of her death."

"I don't see why not," Sylvia said, a little coldly. "She wouldn't die
any sooner because you married her, and, anyway, she can't have long to
live."

The words were almost those of the little old lady herself. Yet--or
perhaps for that very reason--they jarred on Michael's mood. He
alleged business, and cut short his call.

Next day Miss Thrale called again. Mr Wood was sorry to have given her
so much trouble. He had decided that the idea was too wild, and must be
abandoned.

"Is it because I am too old?" said the old lady wistfully; "would you
marry me if I were young?"

"Upon my word, I believe I would," Michael surprised himself by saying.
That it was not the answer Miss Thrale expected was evident from her
smile of sudden amusement.

"May I say," she said, "in return for what, in its way, is a compliment,
that I like you very much. I would take care of you, and I shall perhaps
not live more than a year or two."

The tremor of her voice touched him. The L15,000 a year pulled at his
will. In that instant he saw the broad glades of waving bracken, the big
trees of the park, the sober face of the great house he might inherit,
looking out over the smooth green lawns. He looked again at the little
lady. After all, he was more than thirty. The world would laugh--well,
they laughed best who laughed last. And, after a few years, there
would be Sylvia--pretty, charming, enchanting Sylvia. He put the thought
of her roughly away. Not because he was ashamed of it, but because it
hurt him. The thought that Sylvia should wait for a dead woman's shoes
had seemed natural; what hurt him was that she herself should see
nothing unnatural in such waiting.

The silence had grown to the limit that spells discomfort; the ticking
of the tall clock, the rustle of the plane tree's leaves outside the
window, the discords of Fleet Street harmonised by distance, all
deepened the silence and italicised it. She spoke.

"Well?" she said.

The plane tree's leaves murmured eloquently o