was it. And, unlike her mood of
late, that had been glum and cold, she was in the wildest spirits.

People looked round from the other little tables, all full now that the
season had begun, her laugh was so infectious; and George felt a sort
of disgust. What was it in this woman that made her laugh, when his own
heart was heavy? But he said nothing; he dared not even look at her, for
fear his eyes should show his feeling.

'We ought to be squaring our accounts,' he thought--'looking things in
the face. Something must be done; and here she is laughing and making
everyone stare!' Done! But what could be done, when it was all like
quicksand?

The other little tables emptied one by one.

"George," she said, "take me somewhere where we can dance!"

George stared at her.

"My dear girl, how can I? There is no such place!"

"Take me to your Bohemians!"

"You can't possibly go to a place like that."

"Why not? Who cares where we go, or what we do?"

"I care!"

"Ah, my dear George, you and your sort are only half alive!"

Sullenly George answered:

"What do you take me for? A cad?"

But there was fear, not anger, in his heart.

"Well, then, let's drive into the East End. For goodness' sake, let's do
something not quite proper!"

They took a hansom and drove East. It was the first time either had ever
been in that unknown land.

"Close your cloak, dear; it looks odd down here."

Mrs. Bellew laughed.

"You'll be just like your father when you're sixty, George."

And she opened her cloak the wider. Round a barrel-organ at the corner
of a street were girls in bright colours dancing.

She called to the cabman to stop.

"Let's watch those children!"

"You'll only make a show of us."

Mrs. Bellew put her hands on the cab door.

"I've a good mind to get out and dance with them!"

"You're mad to-night," said George. "Sit still!"

He stretched out his arm and barred her way. The passers-by looked
curiously at the little scene. A crowd began to collect.

"Go on!" cried George.

There was a cheer from the crowd; the driver whipped his horse; they
darted East again.

It was striking twelve when the cab put them down at last near the old
church on Chelsea Embankment, and they had hardly spoken for an hour.

And all that hour George was feeling:

'This is the woman for whom I've given it all up. This is the woman to
whom I shall be tied. This is the woman I cannot tear myself away from.
If I could, I