but a
smile on Jenny's lips somehow informed me that she expected just such an
objection. So I said nothing.

"Chat and I are going to London to-morrow--to shop. Perhaps we may go on
to Paris. I thought you might like to say good-by."

"That's very kind of you. I'm glad we're not to part in--well, as we
parted this afternoon."

"If you regretted that, you might have done something to prevent it.
Light your pipe again; you'll be able to think better--and I want you to
think a little."

I obeyed her direction, she sitting for the moment silent. I came and
stood opposite to her, leaning my elbow on the mantelpiece.

"When I first knew Mr. Powers, I was sixteen, and I'd been with the
Smalls since I was eleven. You didn't get very discriminating, living
with the Smalls. I met him at a subscription dance: I didn't know
anything about his wife. He was clerk to an architect, or surveyor, or
something of that sort. I met him a good many times afterwards--for
walks. He was good-looking in his way, and he said he was in love with
me. I fell in love with him and, when I couldn't get away to meet him, I
wrote letters. Then I heard about the wife--and I wrote more letters.
You know the sort--very miserable, and, I suppose, very silly--that I
didn't know what to do, only the world was over for me--and so on. You
can imagine the sort of letter. And I saw him--once or twice. He told me
that he was in great trouble; he'd been racing and playing cards and
couldn't pay; he'd be shown up, and lose his place--and what would
become of his wife and child? I flared up and said that I was the last
person who was likely to care about his wife and child. Then he
suggested that I should get money from my father--he knew all about my
father--by saying that I was in some trouble. I told him I couldn't
possibly; I was never allowed to write and should only get an answer
from a lawyer if I did--and certainly no money. He persisted--and I
persisted. He threatened vaguely what he could do. I told him to do as
he liked--that I'd done with him for good. I never wrote again--and I
never saw him till to-day."

"When you asked him to dinner!"

She smiled, but took no more heed. "Well, I was in a scrape, wasn't I? I
saw that clearly--rather a bad scrape. I didn't see what to do, though I
did a lot of thinking. Being in a scrape does teach one to think,
doesn't it? Then suddenly--when I was at my wits' end--it flashed across
me that possibly it might